


Book of Days

by madamebadger



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, Alcohol, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Duelling, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 38,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamebadger/pseuds/madamebadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra and Josephine, growing and living, together and apart, day by day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the collection of my "30 Days of Pentilyet" challenge on Tumblr. The fics will not be in chronological order (although I intend to provide a chronology at the end), so don't be too surprised if they skip around a bit.
> 
> The rating and tags may change over the course of the 30 days.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra is arresting, Josephine is pleased with herself, and a secret is kept from Leliana for almost an entire day.

It was a beautiful day, and Josephine was fairly sure that she didn’t simply think so because of what had happened the night before. But certainly that didn’t hurt. (And what a wonder, that something so quiet, so tentative, so _gentle_ –just a few words spoken, the clasp of hands, the warmth in Cassandra’s eyes, a single kiss that she could still feel upon her lips–should have the power to lift her heart, to bring new brightness to the world.)

It was a beautiful day, the sky a blue so deep it was nearly painful to the eye and the sun warm for once even at this elevation, and that was why she decided to take a mid-afternoon walk on the battlements for some fresh air. That was certainly the reason, and not the word that Cassandra and Cullen were sparring in the courtyard.

(She was very nearly able to convince herself of this.)

She stood looking down at the practice yard, arms folded on the cool stone and the wind attempting to tug her hair free of its chignon. It did not surprise her, much, to hear footsteps and then to feel as much as see Leliana settling next to her, mimicking her posture. “If you moon after her, Josie,” Leliana said, “people will notice.”

“I will have you know, I am far, far too dignified to _moon_ ,” Josephine said loftily, and laughed when Leliana nudged her with an elbow. “Yes, I know,” she said. “But I happened by, and she is a sight worth watching.”

“Oh you _happened by_ , did you?" 

"Mm.” Josephine said. “I notice you are watching as well.”

“Naturally,” Leliana said. “But everyone knows what a menace I am. No doubt I am simply plotting something deeply nefarious and not… enjoying the view. Enjoyable though it certainly is.”

They watched in silence for several minutes. Cassandra and Cullen were relatively evenly matched; Josephine didn’t know enough about sword-and-shield combat to assess them, but she knew it had to be true by how long the bout had gone on. Granted, she was paying less attention to their footwork and… sword-work, was that a word? …than she was to the lean grace of Cassandra’s body, the fluidity of her muscles beneath her armor, her agility and her fierce strength. 

(She would make a wonderful dancer with just a bit of guidance. Oh, _that_ was a lovely idea. Perhaps if Josephine was very careful and everything went well she could look forward to a dance at Halamshiral. Perhaps, perhaps….) 

“You could just say something to her, you know,” Leliana said, breaking the silence. Josephine said nothing, just let her smile widen fraction by fraction until Leliana caught her breath and said, “ _Josephine!_ You did!”

“I am quite pleased with myself that I managed to go nearly three-quarters of a day without you finding out.”

“Last night, then?” She could see the wheels turning behind Leliana’s eyes, putting the pieces together. “After that dreadful–”

“Yes. I only meant to–well, I ended up saying more than I intended to when I sought her out. Fortunately… it worked itself out far better than I would have hoped.” She knew she was smiling so fondly, so foolishly, but she couldn’t help it, remembering Cassandra’s long fingers cupping her cheek, hope blooming in her golden-warm as the dawn. 

“Well, then,” Leliana said, “I suppose I cannot blame you for mooning–or not-mooning, as the case may be. And I shall leave you to glow in peace.” Far below, Cassandra disarmed Cullen and knocked him back with her shield. Even from this far up, Josephine could see the wild exhilarated pleasure on Cassandra’s face, the companionable way she offered him a hand up. “But,” Leliana continued, “if you do not find me and tell me every detail before the week is out, I will hunt you down and wring it out of you.”

“Such threats, Spymaster,” Josephine said around the curve of her smile. She could not help but be a _little_ smug, could she?

Down in the courtyard, Cassandra clapped Cullen on the shoulder, then turned and–oh. Josephine could tell the exact moment her eyes caught on her figure on the battlements (well, her clothes _were_ designed to stand out, not to blend in). She considered for a moment pretending that she wasn’t watching, but… no, how foolish. What else could she possibly be up here for? So she decided to make a virtue of necessity, and lifted her arm in a silent salute. After a moment, Cassandra did the same. 

“Mm, and you are found out,” Leliana said, pushing herself away from the wall. “The gardens are quite romantic at this time of afternoon." 

"I don’t–” Josephine began, but Leliana was already gone.

* * *

The gardens _were_ quite romantic at that time of afternoon. And nearly deserted. Mother Giselle was at her prayers in the chapel, and the herbalist was pottering around the planters, but that was all.

Josephine waited five minutes, and was just beginning to feel silly when Cassandra arrived, still in her training clothes and flushed with her exercises and incredibly beautiful, so much so that Josephine felt abruptly shy. (She wondered exactly what magic Leliana had worked to send her here, so quickly.) 

“You… were watching?” Cassandra asked out of nowhere, not one to dance around a question. 

“Well,” Josephine said, feeling her cheeks warm, “you are well worth watching. There was an entire circle of people around you two observing, after all." 

Cassandra colored slightly. "They were watching for training reasons. Techniques. It can be useful to watch veterans spar." 

Josephine wondered whether Cassandra really _believed_ that, that her entire audience was simply there to pick up combat tips. It was quite possible: the woman could be most bafflingly modest. "Well, perhaps,” she said, and then, feeling bolder, “For me, it is simply that you are breathtaking when in your element." 

The color rose higher in Cassandra’s cheeks, but she smiled, that soft smile that made Josephine’s heart threaten to stop. Her fingers found Josephine’s, her grip warm even despite her leather glove. "I am not good at… this. Compliments. But you, you are breathtaking _always_.” And for a moment Josephine thought that Cassandra would kiss her, but–no, not somewhere so public, not so soon. Instead, she lifted Josephine’s hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, warm and gentle but lingering just a moment longer than the simply courtly. 

“You flatter me,” Josephine said, her breath lost in her throat.

And Cassandra smiled, really smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ask Leliana how often I resort to _flattery_ ,” she said, dryly, and then gestured to the door, and Josephine laughed as she followed her indoors.


	2. Accusation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra is trapped, Yvette is a terror, and Josephine is a very dangerous woman.

Cassandra Pentaghast had been cornered by many terrifying things in her life. Dragons, giants, Red Templars, Sera in a mood to pull a prank—and she had faced them all down fearlessly and with aplomb.

It was, therefore, perhaps poetic justice that she had managed to be most thoroughly _trapped_ by a young woman who barely came past her shoulder.

“Lady Pentaghast?” Yvette Montilyet’s voice was as glitteringly-bright and as implacable as a diamond.

“Yes?” Cassandra said.

“The Hero of Orlais?”

“…Yes,” she continued, warily, “but—”

“The Right Hand of the Divine?” Her enthusiasm was an almost physical force; Cassandra could feel it actually pushing her back into the corner. _So this_ , she thought, _is what Josephine’s charm would be like if she used it for evil_.

“Yes, but—”

“Is it true that you defeated five dragons in single combat to save the life of Divine Beatrice?” Yvette asked breathlessly.

(It didn’t make things any easier that she looked so _much_ like Josephine. Not so that you could ever mistake them—Yvette was a bit taller, a bit thinner, with a more pointed face, and she wore her hair in long ringlets instead of Josephine’s refined chignon. But her eyes were precisely the same color, which made it rather unnerving because Josephine would _never_ stare so openly and with eyes so credulously wide.)

“What?” Cassandra asked, momentarily flummoxed. “No, of course not, there was only one dragon—” well, technically two, not that she was going to tell Yvette that “—and I had a great deal of assistance. I have barely slain more than five dragons in my _life_.”

This correction was clearly a miscalculation, for Yvette caught her breath in a little delighted gasp and said, “More than five dragons? Oh! Oh my!”

Normally Cassandra had no difficulty getting rid of people who bothered her; a few curt words sent them on their way. But this was the first time she had met anyone in Josephine’s family,and family was clearly so dear to Josephine’s heart that Cassandra wanted badly to make a good impression. So she could hardy just cut Yvette off and walk away.

(She had not met Yvette at Halamshiral, because Josephine had—at least, according to her reports later—spent most of the night metaphorically [and possibly literally] sitting on her younger sister to ensure that she did not make a fool of herself. And at that time their relationship had been so new and so fragile—and Cassandra had been so frankly smitten with Josephine—that she had been afraid to even be in the same _room_ with her, lest every Orlesian in the place read her devotion written with painful clarity on her face. So she had only seen Josephine late, late in that night, when darkness and starlight could conceal their single waltz together.

But the Montilyets had sent Yvette to this final celebratory gala in the wake of Corypheus’s defeat, and Cassandra could not duck her forever.)

“I, ah,” she said, articulate as always, and searched over Yvette’s shoulder, trying to catch the eye of someone—anyone—to rescue her.

“Oh you must tell me about each and every one,” Yvette said breathlessly. “You _must_.”

And there, thank the Maker, Josephine: descending on them like an ancient Avvar goddess of mercy or possibly vengeance. (No wonder. Josephine had been planning this event for weeks; she would be on top of every detail, even her own sister.) She said, in her flattest tone, “Yvette. Are you bothering Lady Cassandra?”

“Josie!” Yvette turned, all bright smiles. “Of course not. Am I, Lady Seeker?”

Cassandra had no idea what the correct answer was. “Um,” she said.

“You are,” Josephine said.

“I would not have to if you would _tell_ me things,” Yvette said. “I have been sending you so many letters, and you do always write back but you never give me anything _juicy_. My friends keep asking me and I have nothing to tell them!”

“Which is precisely why I do not tell you.”

“Besides, there is nothing scandalous in Lady Pentaghast’s dragonslaying adventures! And she does not mind. Do you?” Yvette turned enormous eyes on Cassandra.

“Ah,” Cassandra said.

“You will stand up straight,” Josephine said, with a martinet’s severeness that Cassandra could only admire, “make a good impression of yourself, mingle with the guests, and stop bothering Lady Cassandra.”

“But I want to _know_. They say that the two of you are engaging a Tevinter mage to use forbidden magics to permit you to produce a Montilyet heir together, even though you are both women! Is that true?”

Josephine flung up her hands and said, “Yvette! If you must indulge in ridiculous rumors, go speak to Master Tethras. He will provide you with a plethora.”

“But I want to speak to your _paramour_!” Yvette said.

Josephine made the most undignified, most frustrated noise Cassandra had ever heard her make. It was remarkable. She was not even so indelicate when she had stubbed her toe on the washstand early in the morning. “Yvette. _Go._ You and I will have a chance to talk _later_.”

“With Lady Cassandra?”

“Perhaps, if you comport yourself _respectably_ ,” Josephine said, managing in just a few words and a raised eyebrow to express that she found that quite unlikely.

Yvette turned to flounce off—but not before she gave Cassandra a wink that made Cassandra suddenly reconsider the entirety of the prior conversation. _Oh_ , she thought, and suddenly her assessment of Yvette went up a few notches.

“Maker,” Josephine said, turning back to Cassandra, one hand over her face.

Cassandra felt something tingling in her stomach. It was, she quickly realized, laughter. She tried to hold it in, but a splutter escaped her.

Josephine lowered her hand, raised a brow. “Is something funny?” she asked, in what Cassandra knew was a dangerous tone of voice. Not that that seemed to do any good.

“It,” she said, and then, “you,” and then a giggle fell out of her mouth, entirely un-asked-for and somewhat to her surprise. She didn’t _giggle_. Did she?

Josephine folded her arms. Cassandra knew that that was not a good sign, especially not when Josephine was so stressed over this ball, but she couldn’t seem to help herself as she pressed her lips together to hold in her laughter. “It amuses you, does it?”

“I have never seen you so—so frankly _undiplomatic_ ,” Cassandra said, and tried to stop laughing, and failed.

Josephine narrowed her eyes. “If you find it so funny, I will bring Yvette back and tell her that you want to spend the _entire evening_ describing all your dragon-slaying exploits. In great detail. She will probably want to do a painting.”

Cassandra pressed her wrist to her mouth in an attempt to hold in her merriment, without noticeable success.

“I mean it,” Josephine said. And Cassandra knew that she was not bluffing—Josephine was, in her own very special way, at least as ruthless as Leliana—but with the dam broken, with all of her relief at the success of the Inquisition and her own unlikely and unwarranted and heartstopping luck at having found Josephine, she just couldn’t stop laughing.

“Fine,” Josephine said, turning away, “I’ll go find Yvette again"—and Cassandra reached out, caught her wrist, reeled her back in.

"I’ve stopped,” she said, taking a deep breath and settling herself to make it true. “See?”

Josephine gave her a skeptical look.

She slid her hand down over Josephine’s hair, cupped her cheek. “I love you.”

And she knew she was forgiven by the way Josephine’s eyes softened. “ _Mi tesoro_ ,” she said. “You know I love you too. Even when you apparently collude with my sister to drive me mad.” Josephine came up on her tiptoes and kissed Cassandra—kissed her, here, now, soft as morning. And yes, they were off to one corner, but nevertheless it was in front of hundreds of dignitaries and guests and important personages and she didn’t care.

When they broke apart, Cassandra drew her close and whispered, “So, _are_ we engaging a Tevinter mage to help us produce an heir through forbidden magics?”

“Dorian would never stop smirking,” Josephine said.

“Perhaps I will ask, just to see the look on his face,” Cassandra said against her temple, and she felt more than heard Josephine’s answering laughter, and smiled into her hair.


	3. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra worries, Josephine cannot be moved, and certain words are spoken.

Cassandra was not generally a light sleeper. By nature and long habit she could fall asleep quickly even in quite uncomfortable circumstances—a benefit when you spent so much time on the road, on thin and lumpy sleep rolls on the iron-hard ground. It helped that most days were full enough that she fell into bed exhausted, and her silent nightly devotions—brief as they were when on the road—settled her mind and prepared her readily enough for sleep when pure exhaustion wasn't enough.

This particular day, even exhaustion wasn't helping her, and even her prayers could not still her thoughts.

Sera and the Inquisitor were already asleep—Sera fell asleep as quickly as Cassandra usually did, curled up in a ball under her blanket, and it wasn't much longer before the Inquisitor's breathing evened out into sleep as well, leaving Cassandra the only one awake, staring up at the peak of the canvas tent above them.

She tried the meditation techniques she had learned as a young Seeker, selecting a verse of the Chant of Light and meditating upon it, the same short verse again and again—and when that did not work, emptying her head and heart entirely, focusing on nothing but the wordless image of a flame in her mind's eye. Normally, on the rare occasions that she could not sleep, one or the other of those techniques would work, at least.

Not this night.

Finally, as silently as she could, she pushed back her blanket, rose from her bedroll, and opened the tent-flap, securing it closed behind her.

In the faint light from the low fire, she could see Bull, sitting up at watch. He glanced up at her. "It's not time for dawn watch yet," he said, voice low in deference to the others sleeping nearby.

"I know," Cassandra said. "But I can't sleep. If I am to sit awake, I might as well spend it productively and permit _you_ to sleep."

In the darkness she could see his eyes, searching her face. _Ben-Hassrath_ , she knew, which she was given to understand meant that he was (among other things) good at reading people. More like Leliana than like Cassandra herself, although it was easy to forget if you only permitted yourself to see the horns and the muscles and the straightforward ferocity in battle. Well, perhaps: if he could read her, then he could read her; there was no point worrying about it.

"Sensible," he said, finally, getting to his feet. "Wake me for the dawn shift. Hopefully you'll be tired enough to sleep then."

She nodded and took his position next to the fire. She had sat so many watches in her life that the whole of it was instinctive: expanding her awareness, attuning her senses to the dark and the silence, keeping alert to changes. And meanwhile her brain spun and spun and spun with the thoughts she had spent all day trying not to think.

Josephine's life was in danger. Not as all of their lives were in danger, but directly, a pointed threat backed with the blades of assassins. Josephine's life was in constant danger, and Cassandra was miles and days away and could do _nothing_.

_The morning they were to depart, she had paced the stable, back and forth and back and forth, hands clenched to fists and fists striking her own thighs in frustration, until a voice behind her said, "Cassandra. You're frightening the horses."_

_"Leliana." She turned. "How can you take this so—so_ calmly _?"_

_"If you think I am calm, you are grossly mistaken. I wish more than I can tell you that Josephine had permitted me to deal with the assassins in my own way. But driving myself wild with frustration will not help."_

_"If only I did not have to leave, I could—I—"_

_"What? Shadow her every footstep? Stand guard at her door all night?" And Cassandra's face must have betrayed that, were she free to do so, she_ would _have done so, gladly, because Leliana sighed. "Oh, Cassandra. She must be able to breathe, at least."_

_"As long as she is able to breathe," Cassandra said, and then, because she was too weak to be able to keep herself from at least broaching the topic, "I don't suppose you could still...?"_

_"She asked me not to, and I will not make such decisions for her. It is her right to choose such for herself."_

_"Even if it means her life?"_

_"Even then," Leliana said, and Cassandra set her jaw, shook her head. "You do not have to agree with me, but you will not change my mind on this."_

And she had not changed her mind. And now in the dark of the night all she could think of was Josephine at the mercy of assassins' blades—Josephine, whose work sought always for connection, for accord, to be cut down—and over nothing, nothing at all, an old contract from a dead family, and yet—

And she could do nothing.

* * *

It was when she returned that she heard of the attack on Josephine.

Leliana did not send word of it while they were away, and Cassandra must grudgingly admit that this was likely a wise decision. Josephine was alive, unharmed—untouched, even; her guard had dispatched the assassin before it had even come close to her. And the word would have disrupted her, unnecessarily, when she could do nothing about it and when she had greatest need of her concentration.

But it drove her half-mad to think of it: that Josephine had very nearly been assaulted, very nearly been _killed_ within Skyhold, even within the central keep—within her study that was her sanctuary. That the attempt was unsuccessful did not do away with the fact that the attack should not have happened at all. Cassandra went away into danger secure in the knowledge that her—her beloved (she could say the word in the privacy of her head, at least, even if she had not yet summoned the courage to say it aloud) was safe within Skyhold.

(And yes, that was a hypocrisy, as Leliana would have been quick to point out if Cassandra had been foolish enough to bring this worry to her. _Yes_ , she expected Josephine to live with the knowledge that Cassandra's life was all perilous danger, while she could hardly stand to think of Josephine in any danger at all. Yes, she asked Josephine to deal with fears that she herself could not bear; she was woman enough, at least, to own that fact.

And she would _be_ a hypocrite, would admit to it gladly, to keep Josephine safe, if it meant that she would not add Josephine's face to the tapestry of those who she had lost—her mother, her father, her brother—and those she had both lost and failed—Galyan, Justinia, Daniel.

The thought of Josephine joining that litany of the lost was beyond bearing.)

They walked, that first evening after she'd returned, in the gardens, as had become their custom whenever Cassandra was at Skyhold; through the gardens themselves when the weather was fair, along the peristyle when it rained. (Once, dallying by the roses, they had been caught by surprise by a sudden hailstorm, and among Cassandra's sweetest memories was the sight of Josephine, arms over her head, disheveled and laughing as she ran for the shelter of the overhand.) She joined Josephine often for tea or meals, too, but those occasions she frequently shared with others—the Inquisitor, Leliana, Dorian, Vivienne, various guests—and these garden walks were for the two of them alone.

"Josephine," she said, once Josephine's arm had settled around her waist, a touch more companionable than sensual and yet still enough to make her blood fizz in her veins, "I do wish—Leliana could sort this out for you in a week. Less."

"At the risk of lives," Josephine said. "No, I could not."

"But you are risking a life as it is," Cassandra said, fumbling—fumbling for the right words, fumbling to speak true, the truth as she saw it, clear in her mind's eye but so murky in her mouth. "Is not your own life worth something?"

"Yes," Josephine said, peaceably. "But mine is the only life that I feel morally entitled to risk."

Her heart in her mouth, beating hard against her temples, Cassandra said, " _Please_."

"I would indulge you in almost anything, _mi tesoro_ ," Josephine said. (Cassandra tried to commit the shape of those words to memory, to look them up later, to know, to see, her heart thumping in her chest in the clumsy uneven rhythm of a new recruit with a practice sword.) "But not this. Please do not ask me again."

* * *

Cassandra did not ask again. But she fretted, she watched. While she was in Skyhold, whenever duties did not take her elsewhere, she shadowed Josephine's steps. She found excuses to sit in her study with her—mending armor, sharpening her blade, laboriously going over her own correspondence, or simply reading. She found excuses to accompany her in the halls to meetings, to vet her guests—watching always for how one might have concealed a weapon—and to attend to her at meals. Had she been able to think of an excuse, she would have followed her to her rooms at night, slept in the sitting room to guard the space between Josephine's door and her bedroom. (Or was an assassin more likely to come in through the window? She did not know; she fought in broad daylight and open air, not in shadows and secrets. She did not know, she did not _know_ , the worry drove her nearly mad.)

She supposed it was perhaps for the best that she could think of no excuse. The very imagining of it made her cringe: explaining that she wished to spend the night with Josephine, but not for carnal reasons—and yet she _did_ also want to spend the night with Josephine for carnal reasons, only not so soon—at least, not unless that was what Josephine wanted as well—and, and, and, and. No; this was not how she wished to gain her first invitation to Josephine's rooms of a night. But at least, if there was anywhere that Leliana was sure to have her agents watching, it was Josephine's bedchambers. No doubt they would be able to cover both the door _and_ the windows.

Still. She worried.

On the fifth day, Josephine said, in the way she had that was at once laughing and serious, "My dear lady, I appreciate your concern, but you must permit me at least to _breathe_."

She had stood quite still, felt herself going stiff, as she always went when matters turned to the tender and personal and her ability to express herself could not keep up with her feelings. "I... am sorry," she said, her voice rigid with dignity and hidden pride. "I did not realize I was making you uncomfortable."

"Not uncomfortable, exactly. But I am well-guarded, and I am sure that you have more important things to do than watch over me at every turn."

 _Nothing is more important_ , was Cassandra's immediate, instinctive thought, although even she knew enough to know that she could not voice it aloud, not this early, not yet. She closed her eyes. "If it is your wish," she said, and faltered.

Josephine's hand settled on her arm. "It will be over soon. I have nearly arranged all the favors I need to resolve this peacefully, with no more bloodshed." Her fingers tightened on Cassandra's forearm. "It will all be well, my lady, I assure you."

"How can you know that?"

Josephine's smile tilted, sideways, subtle, tender. "The same way you know it when you go out to do battle, and yet always assure me that you will see me again. The same way."

* * *

"Leliana," Cassandra said, "you know Antivan."

"Yes," Leliana said. 

"I... might have heard a phrase. You might be able to translate?" Cassandra could feel the blush starting, prickly, between her shoulderblades and rising up the back of her neck. " _Mi tesoro_ , or something like that." Leliana began to smile, that slow feline smile she has, and Cassandra pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and added, "Please do not tease. I am not in the mood."

And Leliana, to her credit, did not tease. "It means 'my treasure,'" she said. "A fairly common endearment in Antivan."

Cassandra wet her lips. "And," she said, "perhaps you could tell me... how one would say 'my love' in Antivan?"

(Because, oh, it was terrifying, the thought of saying it. The thought of putting it into words—words had always been her most dangerous enemy, for she was drawn to them sure as a moth to a candleflame and just as sure they were likely to end in disaster for her. And yet. And yet. The thought that Josephine might die is bad enough. The thought that she might die not _knowing_ is worse. And if Cassandra must find the words, then the words she finds will be the best she can chisel out.)

Leliana's eyes softened, and there was no mockery in her voice when she answered.

* * *

When they rode, finally, to Val Royeaux to finish this—this—this foolish _nonsense_ , the Inquisitor did not invite Cassandra to join them.

Cassandra knew _why_ , knew that her fear and her anger had made her volatile. And so she kept her tongue still, for all that she wished to go, to stand guard at Josephine's side, to watch over her. She knew that the Inquisitor and Vivienne and Varric and Blackwall would watch her carefully, and yet—

So. They bade each other goodbye in the courtyard, with soldiers watching while pretending not to watch.

"This will be done soon," Josephine said, "and all will be back to normal. You will see."

"Yes," Cassandra said, and did not speak of the path of bloody vengeance she would cut through the House of Repose if any harm came to Josephine. (A poor memorial that would be, for a woman who wished no bloodshed; and yet she was not sure she would be able to stop herself. She was weak, oh yes; in some ways, she was weak indeed.) 

Josephine's fingertips slid over Cassandra's shoulders, catching at the straps there that anchored her armor into place. "I shall miss you, but I will be back soon."

"I," Cassandra began, and fumbled and nearly swallowed her tongue, and then said, in a rush, her accent awful and her voice tight and sharp, "I shall miss you as well, _mi amora_."

And for a moment, there, in Josephine's lovely grey-green-gold eyes, a flicker and she thought that she had perhaps wildly miscalculated—thought that she had doomed herself through her clumsy tongue, her incautious and helplessly romantic heart. But then Josephine flung both arms around her (here, before everyone), and clung to her so tight that it drove the breath from her lungs, and only slowly and clumsily did she raise her own arms to close them around Josephine's back.

" _Mi amora_ ," Josephine said, pulling back far enough to kiss her, soft and chaste but full of promise, " _mi tesoro_ , I will be back before you know it."

"Please," Cassandra said, voice choked and thick, and didn't know what she was asking for.

* * *

Cassandra slept only in snatches and fragments all the time they were gone.

* * *

And when they returned, with Josephine bright as a banner in her traveling clothes and astride her white palfrey, Cassandra's heart lifted, lifted, lifted, and she turned her face to the sun and thanked the Maker for this: for the safety of her beloved; for her own selfishness for once not punished; for love, and love, and love.

 _Mi amora_ , she thought, _m_ _y love_ , and then, even more importantly: _my home_.


	4. Snowflake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine is cold, Cassandra remembers, and a peace accord is made with the winter.

There were flannel sheets on the bed, and two blankets and a counterpane, and a thick feather mattress beneath, and Josephine was still not warm enough. She pressed herself to Cassandra, her breasts against Cassandra's back, knees tucked behind Cassandra's knees, legs tangled together. Her hand rested against Cassandra's stomach to hold her close.

After a moment, Cassandra said, dryly, "You're using me for my body heat, aren't you?"

"Well," Josephine said, her face hidden between Cassandra's perfectly-sculpted shoulder blades. "Not _just_ your body heat."

Cassandra laughed and turned over. Her kiss, quick as it was and born of affection rather than passion, nonetheless warmed Josephine in a way that even a hundred quilts never could. "All this and you're still freezing."

"I'm from Antiva," Josephine said, with as much dignity as was possible when naked and pressed skin-to-skin against someone. "I was born to sunny days and balmy nights and, let me emphasize this, short and mild winters. I did not sign up for having to break the ice on my washbowl in the morning."

"I think you did actually sign up for exactly that," Cassandra said, and laughed when Josephine snorted and rolled her eyes.

She tucked her head beneath Cassandra's chin and felt Cassandra's arms tighten around her, holding her secure and warm, one hand stroking absently up and down the small of her back. "What about you?" she asked against Cassandra's throat. "Nevarra is not so much colder than Antiva."

It was a delicate question to ask, she knew, for Cassandra spoke of her childhood rarely and never happily, and in fact, Cassandra's hand stilled on her back at the question. "I have spent most of my life in Orlais," she said, after a long moment. "And I am, I suppose you could say... used to discomfort."

"Mm," Josephine said, and resolved not to push, resolved not to try to make Cassandra talk if she didn't wish it.

But then, softly, Cassandra said, "When I was a young child, I didn't care for winter. I was happiest outdoors, and my nurses and governesses kept me in when the weather turned cold. But then the year I was, oh, five or six, my brother came home for the winter holiday."

"He was away most of the time?"

"He spent a great deal of time studying, training, yes. He was very talented. And he was ten years older than me." Josephine felt Cassandra's thumb tracing circles on her hipbone. "I suppose had he lived, he would be, what, fifty now? With a paunch, no doubt, and children, and grandchildren." Josephine felt that moment spin itself out, crystalline and fragile, Cassandra's eyes closed and her lashes heavy on her cheeks. What did she see behind her closed eyes? "At any rate. He came home for Wintermarch, and I was—I suppose—sulky, difficult."

"No!" Josephine said, faux-shocked, and Cassandra rolled her eyes and bent her head to nip at the upper edge of her ear.

"Hush, you," she said. "You have no ground to be sarcastic until _you_ have spent an entire winter inside the home of a Mortalitasi necromancer."

"I suppose that's fair," Josephine said, and Cassandra kissed her forehead.

"So my brother came home," she went on, "and he found me recalcitrant and irritated, and he told me—he told me that I should appreciate the winter, because it was when the Maker's art was most visible. _Each snowflake perfect, each snowflake different_ , so he said. And I didn't believe him. So we went out to catch snowflakes. You have to wear thick gloves to do that, so the heat of your hand doesn't melt them—well. He lent me one of his. Dragon-slaying gauntlets and, oh, three or four times bigger than my hands, I was clumsy as anything. But I was so honored. I used his left glove and he used his right glove, and we kept our other hands in our pockets to keep them warm, and caught snowflakes."

"And were they all different?" Josephine asked, her breath bated not with anticipation of the answer but with this moment, Cassandra speaking so openly of the things she kept close to her heart—the things she held as delicately as a snowflake.

"Yes. Each one, lacy and perfect. I still remember... well. And so I do not mind the winter now."

Josephine nuzzled closer to her, warm not so much with their shared embrace as with the honor of this story, this confession. Cassandra spoke so rarely of her childhood, even more rarely of her brother. "Perhaps," she said, quiet and tentative, "we could compare snowflakes here. For purposes of research, of course."

"I should like that," Cassandra said.


	5. Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the companions are a nuisance, Cassandra is intoxicated, and Josephine is kindness personified.

It was Dorian's fault. No—no, Cassandra thought, let's be fair: the first bottle of excellent Antivan red wine was Dorian's. It was Varric who suggested they follow it up with ale, and Bull who broke out the hard stuff afterwards.

Cassandra did not drink often. Or, well: she drank ale on the road with reasonable frequency, because in many taverns and inns the water couldn't be trusted, but only ever one mug at a time. And she would drink a glass of wine with dinner. But she did not drink often beyond that, and essentially never to the point of intoxication; her temper notwithstanding, control was the heart and center of a Seeker's abilities, and you couldn't maintain control when drunk.

But sometimes. And it was Dorian's fault—or Varric's—or Bull's.

So: she was drunk. She was just sober enough to know she was drunk, but not sober enough to be ashamed about it. So she was able to find Josephine's room without embarrassing herself, but then—

"Cassandra," Josephine said. She was beautiful—very beautiful—ravishing, even, in a dressing gown and with her hair loose and she was also very, very kind, because when the door opened and Cassandra nearly lost her balance with it, she caught her. (Landing on Josephine was a nice thing, Josephine was so soft, soft and warm and so beautiful....)

"Josephine," Cassandra said, very seriously, after Josephine had edged the door shut. "I believe I am drunk."

"You don't say."

"I do say. I do. There are a lot of things that I say, or should say." She met Josephine's eyes, tried to impress upon her the importance of what she was going to say. Josephine appeared to be about to laugh. "I do say, I say, I—you are so beautiful. So amazingly beautiful."

"So beautiful that you wait to say so until you are intoxicated?" Josephine asked, and she was smiling, but—

"No! No. No, I should say it always, I should say it always and in... in all ways, but I don't because my tongue trips me up. But it's always true." She looked at Josephine so earnestly. "It _is_ always true. You are so beautiful and so sweet and so charming and so beautiful, did I say that? And I do not know what I could have ever done to deserve you. You, you, you are _amazing_."

Josephine smiled, and went up on her tiptoes to kiss her, and then made a face. "What on earth were you drinking? Your breath smells like murder."

"Something of Bull's," Cassandra said, and permitted herself to be maneuvered to bed. 

"I shall have to thank him in the morning," Josephine said, but Cassandra was already halfways to unconsciousness as she was coaxed to lie down.

* * *

Cassandra woke to three realizations.

One: though she almost always woke in the early grey light of dawn, today she woke to golden sunlight falling across the bed.

Two: though she almost always woke before Josephine—who was a night person by inclination and habit—today she woke with Josephine already awake and sitting up next to her in bed, reading.

Three: as soon as she sat up, her head lurched with a hot-spike agony. She squeezed her eyes shut and lay back down, willing her body to stop its violent protestations.

"Awake, love?" Josephine asked, turning the page of her book. 

Cassandra grumbled something unintelligible even to herself and pulled the pillow over her head.

"I hope you don't mind awfully. I took the liberty of informing the Inquisitor that you would not be at the breakfast meeting."

"You are a goddess of mercy," Cassandra said, muffled by the pillow. She felt Josephine's hand stroke idly down her back.

"I have also called for a traditional Antivan hangover remedy. I must warn you, it will taste vile beyond belief."

"If it will make my head ache less, I will bear it," Cassandra said. And then: "You are being quite kind to me, given that it was nothing but my own foolishness that got me into this predicament."

"It is not precisely an unusual predicament," Josephine said, and Cassandra could hear the smile in her voice. "And you were quite charming. Ridiculously and implausibly flattering, of course, but charming nonetheless."

"...It was all true," Cassandra said, pulling the pillow away from her head to squint at Josephine's profile, her high brow, the bump on her nose, the point of her chin. "You do know that?"

"Nonsense," Josephine said, coloring quite attractively. "You were... absurdly complimentary."

"It was all true," Cassandra said, over the thumping pain in her head. "It was. I wish I had the words to say how beautiful you are, without needing Bull's poison in my veins to loose my tongue."

"Oh," Josephine said, and she turned such a lovely shade of rose-gold, hand to her cheek. "Oh. Well."

"It is all true," Cassandra said, and leaned forward to kiss her, despite the pounding in her head.


	6. Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra is devout, Josephine is sweet, and there is a cream tea.

The chapel was almost always empty early in the morning—for no small reason, Cassandra thought wryly: it was freezing, with as many large windows as it had (and some of them broken and not yet mended, simply covered with sailcloth to keep the rain out). Some mornings she arrived to find frost on the insides of those windows.

It suited her. For her morning devotions Cassandra preferred absolute privacy—a privacy that was difficult to get except in odd corners at unusual hours. As Skyhold became more and more populous, she suspected that even her dawnlight excursions to the chapel would soon cease to be private... but she would enjoy the solitude while she could.

It was a ritual. She rose, washed her face and her hands and her feet, rinsed the morning sourness from her mouth, dressed simply. (She would put on her gambeson and her belts and line her eyes later; she had been taught to go before the Maker with clean hands and a naked face.) She gathered her supplies—a candle, a tinderbox, a vial of dawn lotus oil, a curved knife, a clean towel—and then made her way down the stairs and out.

As she crossed the gardens, she saw Mother Giselle (did the woman ever sleep?), who nodded but did not interrupt her. Cassandra edged open the door to the chapel, let it close behind her.

She sank to her knees. The stone floor was cold, cold as ice, but she ignored it. She ignored, too, the wintry chill in the air. She unwrapped her candle and set it out on the floor—a good beeswax candle, not cheap tallow, and she let it burn down every day; one of the ways she spent her stipend, when she had so few necessary expenses in her life. It smelled like clean good honey, was white with a faint golden sheen and an untouched white linen wick.

With a practiced motion, Cassandra poured a little dawn lotus oil into the palm of her hand and used it to anoint the candle, a quick motion to make it luminous and fragrant. Then she wiped her fingers on the towel and opened her tinderbox.

_"You are the flint_ ," Ser Byron had told her, once, long ago. _"Hard and sharp and bright. The Maker is the steel, the steady force against which you strike your sparks. And the world is the tinder upon which your light may fall. And your breath to waken those sparks—your voice, your self, rousing others to the blaze of faith that is already in you."_

She opened her tinderbox, removed her flint and steel, and used her fingertips to separate the fine threads of her tinder. One, two, three quick strikes sent sparks into the tinder, and then she lowered her head and breathed soft, soft, to waken those sparks into a blazing flame. Slow, slow, slow.

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world_ , she thought, as her breath woke the sparks, _and comfort is only yours to give._

The tinder burst finally into flame, and carefully, with her fingertips, she lifted it to light the trimmed wick of her candle, and then blew it out.

The candle burned, clean and clear, bright. Cassandra gazed at it, her eyes calm, level.

Leliana prayed with words. Leliana prayed aloud when she could—Cassandra had walked in on her in the middle of some prayer—and when she prayed silently, it was still with words. Cassandra had more than once shared a carriage ride where Leliana appeared to be asleep... save for the occasional subtle movement of her lips.

Leliana, Casandra knew, _spoke_ to the Maker. She believed, clearly believed, that it was possible to have a personal relationshp to the Maker.

It was not that Cassandra thought that Leliana was wrong, precisely. But she could not conceive of talking to the Maker any more than she could conceive talking to a mountain, or to the summer. If the Maker answered back, would not his slightest whisper flay the flesh from your bones with its power?

So she did not talk, as Leliana talked. She did not bargain or apologize or beseech. She knelt. She kept her eyes on the clean golden flame.

She emptied herself, of knowledge and feeling, of pain, of joy, of grief and gladness. She poured it all into the flame and let it be consumed.

_She had been not more than a child when she had learned this—fifteen, agitated, angry. She had found it difficult to sit still. She had found it difficult to empty her mind of the thoughts that circled, circled, circled._

_"Give it away," Ser Byron had said. "The anger, the agitation. Pour it out. Let the flame have it, let the candle have it. Open yourself to the purity that the Maker finds within."_

Her eyes steady on the flame, she poured herself out. And then she closed her eyes.

The icy stone floor was beneath her. The air was bright and cold around her. The candle burned before her.

Her breath moved in her breast. _Maker, Maker, Maker_. One thought. No thought. _Maker, Maker, Maker_.

Nothing but breath and the Maker moving within her. Empty, empty. Flame in her mind's eye, flame in her heart, all impurities burning with a brilliant color—

She did not know how long she sat, except that it was until she felt right in her heart, in her blood. Aloud, for the first time, she whispered, " _Tell me I have sung to Your approval."_

There was no answer, and yet, the answer settled silently over her shoulders.

* * *

And as was habit, she stopped by the kitchens and collected hot biscuits, and butter, and cream, and blackberry compote. And when she returned to her quarters—their quarters—Josephine was awake, rubbing her eyes, heating the kettle over the hearth to make tea. 

"Oh, bless you," she said, "blackberries! How I love them."

"They are in season," Cassandra said, sitting beside her. The kettle came to a boil, and Josephine poured hot water over tea leaves. 

"Then we must enjoy them while we can," Josephine said.


	7. Formal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine is in her element, Cassandra is out of her element, and common ground is reached.

It was growing late, but after the Inquisitor's triumph, the celebration seemed inclined to go on, and on, and on. Josephine knew that the parties at Halamshiral could continue until dawn turned the skies grey. She would not be expected to stay quite _so_ long—the position of an ambassador had a certain gravitas that permitted her to not keep such terrifically long hours—but she would be expected to keep her presence for some time yet.

But before she did her duty by her position and the dignitaries of the Winter Court, she had one more errand to attend to. With a word in Leliana's ear, she slipped away to the foyer—

—where Cassandra was not. She stood a moment in unexpected consternation; Cassandra had remained by that stairway-rail as if glued there whenever the Inquisitor had not needed her. 

"She went out on one of the balconies," said Cullen's voice, behind her. "One of the unlit balconies. I think it's meant to be closed and she forced the lock, actually."

"Thank you," she said. (She was not sure how much Cullen knew about her relationship with Cassandra. Leliana knew everything, of course, and the Inquisitor a great deal, and she expected that Vivienne had noticed more than she let on, as she always did. But while they were not precisely keeping it a secret, they were... private.)

"Fourth one to the left," Cullen said, "and tell her I envy her her escape."

So Josephine went.

She found Cassandra, indeed, on a balcony that quite clearly had not been meant as part of the festivities; its heavy sheer curtains were drawn, the lights outside were unlit, and—most tellingly—there were scuff marks around the latch. Josephine smiled, and sighed, and opened it.

Cassandra had a knack for looking very dignified even when she was doing something quite undignified, as—in this case—breaking a lock and sneaking out onto a locked balcony to avoid socializing. Even in the starlight, she could see the rigid tension in Cassandra's shoulders, the way her hands were tight around the balcony railing, the sharpness with which her head turned at the sound of the door opening—and the way she relaxed when she saw that it was Josephine.

Josephine closed the door with a quiet click behind her and crossed to stand beside her. Cassandra's posture had softened a little at her presence, but only a little; she was still so, so obviously out of her element.

Unhappy. She was unhappy. Josephine knew it was easy for others to be amused by the depth of Cassandra's surly disdain and discomfort at these things, and in other circumstances Josephine was not above teasing a little herself... but it was hard for her not to see the unhappiness that underlay this particular discomfort.

But then, she knew, where many did not: that Cassandra's parents had been executed after just such a coup as they were attempting to thwart here. No wonder she had spent the night poised to flee. No wonder she stood now with a spine like a fire-poker and a face like a falcon mask.

"I'm sorry you had to come," she said, quietly. 

"It isn't your fault," Cassandra said, her hands flexing on the railing. 

"I'm nevertheless sorry," Josephine said, and Cassandra almost—almost—smiled.

Flowers were not in the _mode_ currently in Orlais—a shame, really, as Josephine loved flowers—but down in the gardens the lindens were in bloom, their sweet elusive scent washing up over the balconies even so late into the night. (She had only been to Halamshiral in summer once before; she had been to the Winter Court many times, of course, as ambassador, but in winter only, when the court was here. She remembered from that one midsummer visit, the gardens in late afternoon, when you could hear the lindens before you saw them from the way the bees clustered, humming, around their heavy blossoms.) She closed her eyes, enjoyed the scent and let Cassandra have her silence.

After a little while, Cassandra said, "Do you truly _enjoy_ this?"

It would be easy to read disdain, or at least incredulity, in her tone, and Josephine had to take a moment to keep herself from reacting to that. But she was very good at not reacting to her first impulse, and after a moment's consideration she realized that—beneath the incredulity—Cassandra was actually _asking_.

"It depends exactly what you mean," she said, slowly. "I do like the conversation. Even the small talk, which I know drives you wild with frustration—it's like a game, to find a way to connect with a stranger. I like that. Finding common ground." Her fingers drummed on the railing as she thought, as she considered her words. "I like the feint and parry of negotiation, and I like it best when it is subtle, a layer over or under words ostensibly about something else. I like knowing the two sentences that will brighten someone's night—and the five words that will send them off in a rage, if I find that more useful. I am arrogant enough that I like that I can look out over a ballroom and know the way I could make or break this betrothal or that alliance—even if I may not choose to use that knowledge. And... I like the flowers and the dresses and the dancing and the perfumes—I am at least that shallow—but not the perfumes _this_ year. Maker, it is as if the entire court has chosen to bathe in clove oil; I will never understand."

That drew a laugh from Cassandra, as she had intended it to.

"But," Josephine said, wetting her lips, "but there are things I do not like. I do not like the poisoned daggers that lurk in every word, and in some of the hands. I have no love for the organization of bards, who turn charm and beauty and talent, which should be celebrated, which should soothe the heart, into something to be... doubted, feared. I detest the politics that turn kin against kin, for all that I know that wherever power is concentrated in family lines, it is nearly inevitable. Yvette...." She smiled a little. "...Yvette drives me mad with regrettable frequency, but the thought that anything could come to pass that would make me wish her dishonored or disinherited or, Maker forbid, dead? It is inconceivable to me." She drew a little breath, let it out, repressed the fidgety urge to qualify her words somehow.

Cassandra said nothing, but after a moment her hand shifted on the railing, slid over Josephine's fingers and tightened her grip. She had, at some point, taken off her heavy gloves; Josephine could feel her sword-calluses and the warmth of her hands even through her own thinner gloves. She turned her hand over so their hands could clasp properly, and then Cassandra lifted it to her lips and kissed her knuckles, a quick brush of lips over silk gloves but enough to make her whole body awaken itself, as if she was suddenly intimately aware of her own skin, her own blood.

"I hate it," Cassandra said, lowering their joined hands, "every part of it. But I know you have no especial love for what I do. So... I will try to respect your battlefield as you respect mine."

"Thank you," Josephine said. And then, half-teasing and half-serious, "... _every_ part?"

Even in the shadows, she could see Cassandra's eyes crinkle with amusement. "I do like flowers," she said. "And I do not mind dancing if I am not forced to it."

"Then," Josephine said, daring, "would you do me the pleasure of a dance, my lady?"

(It was a risk; for all that, were circumstances different, she would have been thrilled to trumpet on the rooftops that Cassandra was her beloved—still, it would be unwise to be too blatant. They could take certain chances at Skyhold, where most of their possible audience was sympathetic, but not here. She suspected Cassandra knew that, for Cassandra had kept a distance the entire time (although half of that, she suspected, was that Cassandra wanted to remain in the foyer and by the stairs so as to facilitate as fast an escape as possible). But the balcony was unlit, the great sheer-silk curtains fell over the windows of the double doors, the starlight was the only illumination... and the simple truth was that she was willing to take a risk for this.)

"I would be honored," Cassandra said, her voice low and soft.

There was a moment of confusion as it became quite clear that neither of them was sure who was going to lead, and in that confusion Cassandra stepped on her foot (thankfully lightly; Cassandra was wearing boots while Josephine wore only slippers). Cassandra looked suddenly mortified, and it would have been easy for the moment to have soured entirely, but Josephine laughed and tucked herself against Cassandra and they fell into step.

Cassandra was such a magnificent person, physically: tall and strong, but beyond that, graceful. She moved with the same casual, almost careless elegance with which she wielded her sword and shield; smooth, expansive, unapologetic in her movements and her measures. And she clearly knew how to dance a Lake Celestine waltz; while it took her a moment to remember the steps, she fell into them with the familiarity of one trained at an early age. Josephine followed with the same practiced elegance, let her skirts swirl about her in counterpoint to the crisp precision of Cassandra's movements. She knew she would never have the easy power and control that Cassandra did; knew, too, that her own more voluptuous measure of grace was worthy in its own way. She delighted in the feeling of Cassandra's hand at the small of her back, Cassandra's strong shoulder under her fingers, Cassandra's eyes shadowed and lovely, her expression soft and enigmatic in the almost-dark. Delighted, too, in the picture they would make: romantic beyond belief for all that there was no one to see it.

After this, she would have to return inside—to soothe, to cajole, to make her rounds, coaxing and talking, dropping ideas in ears so subtly that people would think them their own. That was her weapon, as surely as the sword was Cassandra's, and she wielded it with pleasure and pride in the service of the Inquisition. And Cassandra would stay here on the silent balcony, and retire at the first barely-polite moment, and most likely they would not be alone together again until they returned to Skyhold.

But for now, there was the peace of silence, and starlight, and Cassandra.


	8. Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra is mortified, Josephine is unperturbed, and everyone finds out.

It was only a matter of time, Cassandra knew, before the others found out. Still. That didn't mean that she had to like it—or that she wouldn't find it mortifying when she did.

Especially when the first to find out (after Leliana, who had known within less than a day—Cassandra supposed sourly she should grateful that Leliana hadn't figured out _before_ she herself had) was, apparently, Dorian.

"So," he said, in that way he had that drew the sound out and out. "Lady Josephine seems rather distracted of late."

"I'm sure you're mistaken," Cassandra said, stiffly. "Lady Montilyet is nothing if not dutiful and attentive."

"Oh, she is still twice as dutiful and attentive as a normal person, I will grant you that," Dorian said. "But it happens that I mentioned your name, and she actually sloshed the tea in her teacup and had to put it down. I have never seen such a thing as that before, from her."

Cassandra felt a wave of heat, and covered it by glaring. "Are all Tevinters suspicious and nasty-minded, or is it just you?"

"Why, my entire family is suspicious and nasty-minded. It's one of our more charming traits, if you can believe it." Dorian was giving her the most intolerable smile. "But that is, I think, beside the point."

Cassandra rolled her eyes, and made a noise in the back of her throat. Dorian just laughed.

Two days later... she supposed she should have been grateful that he waited until they were out of earshot of the others on the trail when he said, "I'm not sure why you're so hell-bent on hiding it. It's quite nice to see you happy."

Cassandra hadn't realized she'd been smiling. She snapped the expression off like a candle blown out. "I don't know what you mean."

"You aren't happy? Shall I tell Lady Josephine that?"

"You are impossible."

"Impossibly dashing, I think you'll find," he said. She snorted. And then, a little bit farther down the trail, he added, "There, that smile, that little fond one. You can't keep it off your face for more than five minutes!"

She tried to glare at him, failed.

"Don't worry, I shan't tell anyone," Dorian said. "I know what it's like, having a secret revealed before you're ready."

She glanced at him. In some ways, she thought, she and Dorian had more in common than most of the members of the Inquisitor's inner circle, for all that he was a Tevinter mage. "I suppose you do, at that," she said.

* * *

Of course, Bull knew as soon as Dorian did, or perhaps the causality went the other way. However it was, he grinned at her in the middle of a sparring bout one dusty afternoon and said, "Gotta compliment you on your taste, Seeker."

Cassandra was proud that she didn't falter as she blocked his next blow. "Excuse me?"

"I've always been partial to the curvy ones myself. And all those layers...." He whistled. "Must be like unwrapping a present. A really _nice_ present."

Cassandra felt her face go hot—well, hotter—and hoped that she could chalk it up to training exertions. "I don't know what you're talking about," she snapped, ducking another blow and sliding around to flank him.

He was too quick on his feet, though (she'd always been impressed by his dexterity; remarkable for his size) and pulled back before her blow could connect, forcing her to spin under his arm to keep from being caught wide open. "If you want to play it that way, sure," he said. "I dunno why, though, nothing to be ashamed of. Like I said, it shows good taste."

Cassandra didn't dignify that with a response, instead drawing back, shield up and watching for an opening.

"You'd make a real pretty picture together, though," Bull said, with that edge of teasing lasciviousness he so often used.

Cassandra was fortunate in that embarrassment quickly transmuted itself to anger in her. With sudden viciousness she hammered a blow on the haft of his axe, high up near his hand, and another, and a third, so fast together they were a blur—until it wrenched itself from his grip and spun across the ground, kicking up a plume of dust. Quick as she could, she angled her blade at his throat.

He put his hands up and said, "I concede," but with an infuriating smile on his face like he'd just won the bout. And Cassandra realized with a sinking feeling that, really, he _had_.

As she was toweling the sweat off the back of her neck, she asked, quietly, "How did you know?"

"Ah, well." He shrugged expansively. "Little things. For a long time you were getting more and more informal with each other—went from Lady Pentaghast to Lady Cassandra, stuff like that—and then all of a sudden you're _real_ formal and carefully polite out of nowhere. And there's a way people stand when they're attracted to each other. You've been not-looking at each other well enough, but you can tell you're both always aware of where the other is in a room." Cassandra could feel herself looking appalled, because Bull clapped her on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm trained to notice this kind of thing. Most people wouldn't."

"Well," Cassandra said, only slightly mollified, "...good."

* * *

"Do send Lady Montilyet my best when you see her, darling," Vivienne said, as Cassandra was taking her leave after a discussion of mage tactics in battle.

Cassandra sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "So... you know as well?"

Vivienne gave her a look that was very slightly and very politely pitying. "Of course. I have spent my life sussing out affairs between people quite a lot more subtle than you are, with no offense intended. Lady Montilyet could probably have hidden such a thing from me for quite a while on her own, but you _will_ go and wear your heart on your sleeve."

Cassandra felt herself color. "Oh," she said.

"Do not worry about it, my dear. It is in its way rather charming." She graced Cassandra with a smile and patted her on the arm. "And I could hardly but approve. She is quite an appropriate young woman, and the pair of you, hm, almost... classical."

"I, ah," Cassandra said, quite unsure how to respond. "...thank you?"

"Of course," Vivienne said again, with another pat on the arm, and then turned away in the elegant way she had that made Cassandra feel very foolish as she stumbled, warm-cheeked, down the stairs.

* * *

Dorian was astute, Bull was a spy trained in reading people, and Vivienne was a courtier with years—decades—of experience sniffing out secret assignations. All right.

But when Sera blurted, in the middle of a ride, "So, what's Josie like in bed?" Cassandra almost choked.

She spluttered for a moment, and then, finding her tongue again, snarled, "That's none of your concern."

"Oh," Sera said, sagely. "So you two haven't screwed yet, huh?"

"Sera!" Cassandra said, in the voice that could make trained soldiers quail and the faint of heart outright break and run.

That voice had no effect on Sera, as she should have learned by then. "You should get on that," she said, as lascivious as Bull. "The buttoned-up ones, they always turn out to be _wild_ in the sack."

It was, she supposed, fortunate that the others accompanying the Inquisitor that day were Bull and Vivienne, who already knew. But it didn't help her flaming embarrassment that Bull was laughing, or that Vivienne—while making little tsk-tsk noises at Sera's crassness—was nonetheless looking amused, in a quietly dignified way.

"I am not having this conversation," Cassandra said, as much as a plea to the universe as a directive to Sera.

"Suit yourself," Sera said, with an affected primness that made Bull laugh even harder. Cassandra spurred her horse further ahead, hoping the wind on her face would cool her burning cheeks.

* * *

That evening, Cassandra steeled herself for the most awkward conversation of her life, and cornered the Inquisitor. "About what... Sera said," she began. 

"It's all right," the Inquisitor said, gently. "I already knew."

"You—"

"Leliana told me, once it was clear that it would not be a passing thing. Don't worry—she swore me to utter secrecy, and I have not breathed a word to a single soul." Cassandra was momentarily speechless, and the Inquisitor went on: "Please do not be angry at her. She was clearly quite torn as to whether it was the right thing to do, and I think had she not been concerned for how it might affect the Inquisition, she would never have spilled such a private secret."

"We have been taking pains that it not affect the Inquisition," Cassandra said, and she could hear the stiffness in her voice, the injured pride, and cursed her own transparency.

"I have noticed," the Inquisitor said. "I have been quite happy with your discretion and your dutifulness—both of yours. And for what it's worth, I hope you're both extremely happy. We all deserve some happiness right now."

Cassandra allowed herself to soften, to unbend. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I agree."

* * *

"So, Seeker. A little bird told me—"

"If you put this in a book, Varric, I promise you: _they will never find the body_."

* * *

"Gilt and gladness and glowing cheeks." Cole's voice preceded him, as was so often the case, but—having heard it—Cassandra could make herself focus on the shiver in the air to her right, just beyond the table she commandeered for her reading, and bring him into view. He was perched on the railing of the forge, a dangerous-looking place to be, but he balanced as easily as a sparrow on a branch. "Her voice is even, her expression easy, her words evasive, but her heart is all elation. You make her happy."

She knew better than to ask Cole, at least, how he knew. Instead, she said, "I thought you could only hear the thoughts that were painful."

He shrugged and hopped down from the railing. "It's not always so simple. She worries about you. She worries about everyone but now, especially you. Caring brings caution, love brings fear." He frowned. "That seems... wrong. Hurt hiding in the heart of happiness. Why?"

"That's how life is, I'm afraid," Cassandra said.

"Hm," Cole said, and then brightened, lifting his head enough to give her a rare glimpse of eyes the watery blue of rain. "But you make her happier than you make her sad. The scales tilt, tipping toward joy."

"I am pleased to hear it," Cassandra said.

* * *

It was a filthy tavern in the middle of nowhere, and one in which it was likely that a fight might break out at any moment. Cassandra hunkered down on her bench and prayed it wouldn't. Not that she thought herself in any danger from drunken tavern brawlers—but there was neither pleasure nor honor in knocking the teeth out of some foolish, drunken braggart.

She caught Blackwell's eye, and she could almost _see_ him having the same thought. They smiled at each other in that moment of recognition, and raised their pints in a silent salute.

"Cassandra," he said, after a moment. Thoughtfully. "I hope this doesn't overstep. But I wanted to say how... happy I am for you, and for Lady Montilyet."

She did not bother to ask how he had found out. (If nothing else, she knew that he and Sera were quite close.) "I... thank you," she said. Then: "We have been trying to keep it... rather quiet."

"I assumed. But it is good to have something positive in dark times. I am glad that you both may have that."

* * *

Laden with books sent down by Vivienne (" _Be a dear, Cassandra, and take these to Solas?"_ —and it was remarkable how easy it was to say yes to Vivienne and then, descending the stair heavy-laden with a dozen books and manuscripts, wonder why you had), Casandra eased open the door to Solas' atrium with her foot. "Solas," she said, "I—"

"If this is about Lady Josephine," Solas said, without looking up from his papers, "I am very happy for you, but I have no particular need to discuss the romantic entanglements of my companions. I hope that does not offend you overmuch."

She stalled and almost dropped the books.

He looked up, his frown gradually melting away. "Oh," he said. "You were not going to tell me."

"Vivienne wanted me to send you these books," she said. "But—how did you—" she began, and stalled, and sighed, dropping the books on his desk with a thump. "You knew because everyone knows."

Solas' expression of amused sympathy was answer enough. She put her hand over her face and sighed.

* * *

Scout Harding had always impressed Cassandra as a sober, cheerful, intelligent, hard-working sort, but she was only human—well, no, dwarf. After a successful trip, she often took her scouts drinking at the tavern to celebrate.

Judging by the flush to her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes as she cornered Cassandra, this was one of those nights. 

"Lady Seeker," she said. "I just thought you might want to know. Josephine likes most flowers, but she particularly likes Antivan climbing roses. The big cabbagey ones that smell good, not the weird ones that don't smell like much. She says she hardly ever gets to keep them on her desk, because Orlesians think they look sprawling and unkempt, but they're her favorites. Oh! And she likes bluebells. And lilies, especially the freckle-y ones."

Cassandra stared. "How did _you_ know?" Scout Harding was hardly ever even _in_ Skyhold.

"She sends me instructions to look for stands of particular kinds of flowers sometimes," Harding said, having apparently grabbed the wrong end of that question. "When she needs something particular for someone's room. And, well, we both like flowers, so sometimes we talk about it."

"I..." Cassandra began, and then sighed. It was not worth it. She rubbed her forehead. "Thank you," she finally said.

"Sure thing," Harding said. As she turned away, she said, over her shoulder, "The big climbing ones that smell good, don't forget!"

* * *

"So," Cullen said brightly, one afternoon over discussion of troop training. "I heard you and Lady Josephine—"

Cassandra barely managed not to scream. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, squeezed her eyes shut, and said, "Maker, yes, all right, since everyone in Skyhold apparently knows: yes, Josephine and I are involved, we have been for some time, _yes_ , it is serious, or at least I hope it is, and we are happy. Good enough?"

Cullen was staring at her, mouth agape. After a moment he closed it with a snap. "Ah," he said. "I... had been going to say that I heard you and Lady Josephine were collaborating on the letter to the Forsythia clan."

Cassandra stared at him.

Cullen's expression turned, by shades and increments, from one of utter surprise to one of enormous, absolutely insufferable amusement. "But that is _much_ more interesting, I do agree. Thank you ever so for sharing it."

Cassandra picked up one of the troop markers and threw it at him, which only made him laugh more as he caught it out of the air, until, finally, she was laughing too.

* * *

Cassandra still felt tentative about her open invitation to join Josephine in the evenings, such that she hesitated before simply opening the door rather than knocking. But Josephine's smile when she saw Cassandra wiped the doubts from her mind. Josephine was clearly finished with her work for the evening: she was sitting reading before the fire in a soft kirtle rather than her usual far more formal attire, had wiped the makeup from her face, and her hair was unpinned and fell in a long braid over her shoulder. She was so beautiful like that, soft and smiling in the rosy firelight, that Cassandra thought for one wild moment that perhaps Sera had been right about the slow pace of their courtship.

And then she remembered why she had come up this particular evening, which sobered her like a douse of cold water.

"Josephine," she said, once the door was shut. "I have some bad news."

Josephine's expression turned instantly serious. "What's wrong? Something—is Skyhold in danger?"

"No, no," Cassandra said, coming to sit beside her. "Nothing like that. It's about us." Josephine's expression grew more concerned. Cassandra wanted to kick herself for her clumsy tongue. "No, not like that, either. Just... everyone _knows_."

Josephine's eyebrows drew together, forming a fine line between them. (Cassandra was seized by the entirely inappropriate desire to lean forward, to kiss it away.) "Define 'everyone'?"

Cassandra sighed. "Dorian figured it out and told Bull. Or possibly the other way around. Cole is... Cole. Vivienne figured it out on her own."

"Naturally," Josephine said, her expression unreadable, her eyes wide and dappled as forest leaves.

Cassandra fumbled onward. "Sera figured it out on her own as well, Maker knows how, I think she listens at doors. Varric... has his own resources, I assume, blast him. Blackwall and Harding and Solas, I don't even want to speculate. Probably Sera told Blackwall, they're close. Possibly Solas asked a spirit. Probably a different spirit than Cole. Leliana told the Inquisitor, apparently, but maybe you knew about that. And I might have... accidentally... told Cullen myself."

Josephine had, by now, a hand over her mouth, her eyes crinkling. For one horrible moment Cassandra thought she was horrified, or angry, or both. But then she lowered her hand and she was _smiling_. "Oh," she said. "My dear, I think... I had always assumed that your companions on the road would find out."

"You..." Cassandra paused. "...aren't upset?"

"Not remotely, no." She sat up and took Cassandra's hand. "It would be best if it is not too clear to visiting dignitaries, but I think our friends have the discretion to not mention it. Except possibly for Sera—but she refuses to speak to nobles on principle, and anyway they wouldn’t listen to her if she did. Besides." Josephine smiled, so beautifully. "This is well within my ability to handle. I _am_ a diplomat, after all."

Cassandra leaned forward to kiss her. So late in the day, her perfume had mostly worn off, or been washed off with her makeup, so her scent was mostly the sweet cleanness of her skin and hair. "I wish," she said, softly, "that I could tell everyone. I am not good at keeping secrets, and... you deserve better than to be a secret."

Josephine kissed her again, soft and intoxicating as those roses that Harding said she liked. "I think someday... we will," she said.


	9. Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine is generous, Cassandra surrenders, and there is joy to be found in allowing yourself to receive as well as give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do note the change in the rating! This chapter is basically all sex (I don't want to call it PWP because there is an arc to it, but... yeah.)

If it had simply been that Cassandra didn't _enjoy_ giving in, letting someone else take care of her, letting someone else please her, Josephine would not have pushed. But one of the conundrums about Cassandra was that she was perfectly willing to fight the hardest against the things she wanted the most. She judged herself _far_ more harshly for her love of romantic novels than anyone else ever would; she seemed at times to genuinely believe that her desire for intimate personal love (as opposed to the all-encompassing but impersonal love offered, or theoretically offered, by the Chantry) was a fault, a weakness. 

And in bed, in the privacy of the evening, naked and beautiful and exquisitely vulnerable, she so, so clearly _wanted_ to be seduced, to surrender, to fall—to fall, in the perfect confidence that she would be caught. Josephine could see it vividly in the softness of her eyes, the faint tremor of her eyelashes as Josephine's hands slid down over her ribs to the narrowing of her waist, the shivery way she caught her breath when Josephine pressed a soft open-mouthed kiss to her collarbone and then lower. 

And then, again, the way—just at the point that she was melting into it—she pulled herself together again, reaching for Josephine as if to reclaim control, to give instead of receive.

Josephine resisted the gentle tug of her fingers. "Please," she murmured, lips against the top of Cassandra's breast, the smooth skin there. "I would like very much to take care of you first, tonight."

Cassandra met her eyes, uncertainty and desire warring so clearly there. She had such lovely eyes. Marked as they usually were with her dark kohl, they burned like embers in the shadows of a hearth—but now, with her cosmetics cleaned away, the color seemed different: warm and liquid as fine honey, bright as sunset and soft as polished wood. Cassandra caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, poised in indecision, and Josephine was not above tipping the scales by sliding her hand up to cup Cassandra's jaw, to stroke her scar with soft fingertips.

Then Cassandra smiled, and let herself relax back against the pillows. The grip of her fingers softened, no longer trying to tug Josephine back up but stroking gently along her shoulders and the back of her neck. Josephine hid a triumphant smile against her skin.

She lingered there a while, teasing, kissing around Cassandra's tightening nipples first and then below them to nuzzle and kiss the undercurve of her breast, the crease where it joined her body. She could feel as much as hear Cassandra's breath speeding up, the way her fingers tightened and relaxed restlessly on her shoulders. 

When her mouth finally closed around Cassandra's hard nipple, Cassandra's breathing hitched, one hand sliding up from Josephine's shoulder to twine gently through her hair. She didn't pull—Cassandra was always very careful not to pull, even though Josephine would not have minded so much if she had, a little—but that strong gentle grip sent a thrill down her spine as she ran her tongue over it, savoring the difference in texture between silky areola and taut peak.

She stayed there, attending to first one and then the other, until she felt the telltale shift of Cassandra's body, the way her hips tilted and her legs nudged themselves just a little farther apart. It wasn't a hint—Josephine doubted Cassandra was even consciously aware that she was doing it—but it was, in its way, an invitation, and she was delighted to take it.

(She wished so much that she could just _tell_ Cassandra that it was all right for her to want to be vulnerable, to want romance, to want someone to take care of her for a while as she so often took care of others. But Cassandra—for all her love of novels and poetry—was uncomfortable with words, mistrusted them. Attempting to talk about her feelings turned her ruddy with embarrassment, made her stutter on her tongue. She was happy enough to show her feelings—in private Cassandra was an extremely affectionate person, more so than Josephine would have dreamed to hope—and she could be quite eloquent when she was relaxed, when she didn't feel pressed. But pushing her doused her ability to talk as surely as a bucket of water thrown on a candle.

So it was left for Josephine to show her.)

She traced kisses down Cassandra's belly. Cassandra had scars, it seemed, everywhere—it seemed amazing to Josephine that someone could have been injured so many times and still come back so strong, so brave, fighting so hard—but there was a particularly prominent one there, a slash from her right rib all the way down to her left hip, just bypassing her navel. Josephine followed the line of it, soft wet kisses, the tip of her tongue—a gentle scrape of her teeth over Cassandra's exposed hipbone, when she reached it. She lingered there, at the surprisingly tender skin just inside the angle of Cassandra's hip, until Cassandra's fingers tightened again in her hair and she made a little noise that was as impatient as it was intimate. 

Cassandra was quiet in her passion; she did not make nearly as much noise as Josephine did. (Josephine, admittedly, knew herself to be quite vocal.) But that only made each sound she _did_ make a treasure, to be cherished. Josephine pressed her lips lower, lingered again at the crease where her body joined her leg, heady with the scent of her and the damp curls tickling her nose, until she earned another little sound and then—hoarse and breathless—" _Josephine...._ "

Cassandra actually asked for things so rarely—even asked as obliquely as that—that Josephine could hardly deny her. With her fingertips, she parted her outer lips; paused a moment and heard Cassandra make a high soft sound just at the touch of her breath, and then...

Oh, she was so _wet_ , slick and hot and fragrant with arousal, her inner folds blossoming open and the apex of her sex swollen from its hood. She was flushed deeply as a rose, and like a rose, had such a landscape of intimate territory—so much to discover.

Josephine set to it with a will.

It was not hardly the first time, and yet every time it seemed as though there were new things to find out. The tip of her tongue traced Cassandra's entrance; she pressed her mouth to it, a soft open kiss, swallowed the wetness she found there (and Cassandra made a noise as high and bright as light glinting off a dagger, and Josephine smiled her satisfaction and kissed her again, and again—and then moved away). She curled up, up again to the locus of her pleasure, teasing, tasting, feeling the way Cassandra's hips lifted restlessly, stilled, lifted again. Her hands settled on Cassandra's thighs so that she could feel the silent language of her muscles there, powerful and subtle, speaking in every sharp tension and every melting relaxation as she lapped at her, kissed, closed her lips around her to suck briefly.

Cassandra was quiet in her passion, and so it was all the sweeter when she hummed a closed-mouth whimper, gasped, sighed at the soft caress of Josephine's tongue—shuddered on a groan as Josephine stopped teasing and sought her pleasure in earnest. Cassandra moved beneath her, her breath shuddering into a cascading series of soft moans as she moved and moved—and moved, against her, grinding, now. Josephine pressed her tongue high against her, did not try to still or control the tidal rhythms of her body as she arched, fell back, arched again; tightened and softened; the pattern growing faster in time with the music of her voice, sweet high breaths and low cries. Oh, how wonderful to bring her to this—this surrender, a place in the world where she could give in and still be safe in it.

She didn't try to control the cadence of Cassandra's body against her, but moved with it, fluid, tasting and caressing, feeling and following. Cassandra shuddered so intensely that Josephine could feel it not only against her mouth, not only in Cassandra's thighs, but all the way down her body to her toes curled over Josephine's back. She continued, pursuing another shudder and then another and then a cry high and hoarse, triumphant in its surrender. Cassandra pulsed wet and hot against her and she swallowed and swallowed again, lost herself in the sensuality of it, the joy.

And yes, in the aftermath she realized how aroused she was, her own sex hot and throbbing. But for the moment it didn't matter, nothing mattered but Cassandra loose-limbed and soft beneath her, honey-sweet and melted as beeswax before a fire. Nothing mattered but kissing her way back up, tender and slow, to meet Cassandra's lips again and to feel strong arms around her.

They kissed for a long time, soft lips and the touch of tongues, and she was glad all over again that Cassandra did not shy away from kissing after such a thing as this. And though she ached, still, when Cassandra stroked her cheek and then her hair and said, "What can I do for you?" she hesitated.

"Just this, for now," she said—not self-sacrificing, no martyr's words, just the simple truth. "Just this moment I would simply like to be with you."

Cassandra studied her face, those shrewd eyes amber-bright. But then she nodded, kissed her again—tender and almost chaste—and tucked their bodies together, twined together in a moment of softness that was stronger than steel.


	10. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra is generous, Josephine is lovely, and there is pleasure in quiet sensuality.

There were ways, Cassandra knew, that you were supposed to bring love-gifts to your paramour. There were ways. There were ways more elegant than bursting into their chambers with said gifts in hand, announcing, "I have brought you something."

On the ride back from Val Royeaux she practiced any number of things she could say: "Here, I brought you a gift." "Here, here is a thing that you might like." "Here, because I love you, I brought you a ridiculous frivolity to wear in your hair." "Here, you might be generous enough to pretend you like this—"

(The Inquisitor had, of course, found a much better gift—the Montilyet family crest, re-found and restored after all these years, a gift for the ages. Of course she had.

What Cassandra had bought looked small and tawdry in comparison: a silver comb for her hair, inlaid with amber and amethyst and garnet, the colors that she favored and that suited the mahogany warmth of her skin—and maybe she had better not give it, maybe had better sell it back to the first merchant she found, maybe this was all incredibly stupid.

Maybe.)

 _Here,_ she thought. _I love you beyond reason. I bought this thing because I thought it would suit you, but mostly because I want to see you smile, because your smile is like sunlight to me._

_Here._

It was, as always, a long, long time of reports and necessities and so on before she and Josephine were able to be alone. And by then, in Josephine's quarters before the blazing fire, she felt silly.

Josephine kissed her, soft and warm as roses, and then said, "Oh, I have missed you."

"I missed you as well," Cassandra said, and cursed her tongue and wished that she had Dorian or Varric or Vivienne's skill with words to express it. "I have missed you... a great deal."

Josephine drew her toward the loveseat before the fire, kissed her again, all softness and the sweet scent of her skin. "You are well?" she said, sliding her gentle fingers along Cassandra's jawline in that way that she had, that could make Cassandra tremble even where the threats of a Red Templar could not. 

"I am well," Cassandra said. She swallowed against the tender way Josephine slid fingertips down her throat. And then, before she could be distracted too much, she said, "Wait, I have something for you."

"You know you don't need to," Josephine said, but she looked delighted despite herself as Cassandra dug through her traveling satchel to pull out the carved presentation-box. 

"Here," she said, holding it out. She had felt somewhat dubious about the purpose of that decorated box before, but the way it lit the anticipation in Josephine's face, she suddenly knew. 

Josephine took the box, opened it. "Oh," she said, her voice soft. "Oh, it's lovely." She lifted the comb, its inlaid gems glinting red-gold-purple, turned it over in her hand. "Oh, it's lovely. But... I couldn't—"

"Yes, you can," Cassandra said.

Josephine shifted into the palm of her hand, turning it so that the firelight caught the autumnal spectrum of it, the silver of the comb, the deep gold of the amber, the rich red-purple of the garnet, the clear true violet of the amethyst. "It's—"

"I would like very much for you to wear it," Cassandra said. "If you truly do not want it, I'll take it back. But I would like very much for you to wear it."

Josephine looked at her, with a tremble to her lip and her eyes suspiciously liquid. And then she drew a little breath and said, "Will you help me put it in my hair?"

"I would be honored," Cassandra said. 

It was not the first time that she had undone Josephine's hair, not the first time she'd carefully removed each clip and pin. It was a slow process to gently unravel her coiffure, to undo the braids and loose the soft knot at the nape of her neck. But once it was done, Josephine's hair fell in a riot of curls, pulled into long waves by their own weight, to the middle of her back. They were a sleek and shining black that caught the light as sure and rich as ebony or onyx, and they were soft against the hand in a way that gave pleasure to the touch.

Once Josephine's hair was loosed, Cassandra reached for the boars-bristle brush she kept on her side table and brushed it, from crown to tips, slow and steady, enjoying the sensuality of it, the silky softness, the way the curls clung to her fingers. Josephine tipped her head back and sighed with pleasure, and Cassandra felt her heart and her stomach both fill with tingles at the sound, at Josephine's enjoyment of it. She brushed until Josephine's hair was smooth beneath her hands, and then reached for the comb and hesitated. "I don't know—"

"Here," Josephine said, her voice languid. "Like this." She caught up the weight of her own hair, wound it around and up into a knot. And then, gently, she guided Cassandra's hand to secure the coil of it with the comb. 

The silvery and treasure-bright colors gleamed against her dark hair, against the cinnamon warmth of her neck. Cassandra was a weak, weak woman: she leaned forward and kissed that neck, and then Josephine's shoulder, full to bursting with the sensuality of her.

"It suits me, then?" Josephine asked, her voice soft, luxurious, as she turned her head to meet Cassandra's gaze. Where the comb was autumn colors, her eyes were the color of spring, new green and shining gold.

 _You are the most beautiful woman in the world_ , Cassandra thought. What she said was, "You are as beautiful with it as I had expected," which was the same thing, in truth.

Josephine leaned forward to kiss her, her mouth all welcome. " _Mi tesoro_ ," she said, "you are too kind."

 _I am not kind enough_ , Cassandra thought, but kissed her back, giving her the passion that was her due.

After a while, Josephine pulled away with a smile. "You spent so much time putting my hair up, just to take it down again?"

"I will put it up again, happily," Cassandra said, and kissed Josephine through her laughter.


	11. Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra wants, Josephine plots, and there is a wonderful meadow outside Skyhold.

It was often difficult to convince Cassandra to talk about what she wanted. 

The best times to try were times like this: soft, quiet, private in the sanctity of her bedroom. Cassandra was still naked; the sheets drawn up over her lovely sculpture of a body. Josephine, who tended to be more susceptible to the cold, had donned her chemise again, but was warmed as well by Cassandra's head and shoulders in her lap.

"I had a thought," Cassandra said, and then, almost instantly—"No, never mind."

"I would like to hear it," Josephine said.

"It is...." Cassandra colored. "An... _indulgent_ thought."

"Then I would most definitely like to hear it," Josephine said, and, laughing, dropped a kiss on Cassandra's forehead.

"It is foolish," Cassandra said. "And impractical."

"Well, whatever it is, I wasn't planning on suggesting we do it right this second," Josephine said, running her fingers soothingly through Cassandra's hair. (She did not want to press, but then, too, she did not want to give up. Anything that Cassandra resisted this much—perversely—was something Cassandra wanted rather badly.)

Cassandra gave one of her tight, constrained sighs. Josephine just waited, stroking the back of her neck. After a moment, Cassandra said, "There is no realistic way...." She trailed off.

"Every fantasy you have doesn't have to be practical," Josephine said, and then waited. (One thing she had learned, in a year with Cassandra, was that it took her a long time to put her words together. If you talked over her while she was trying to do that, she would become frustrated and annoyed. It was hard for Josephine, sometimes, to allow a soft wordless space between them, because she was used to comforting people by not allowing the conversation to lag too far. But if she did....)

"Outdoors," Cassandra finally said, and then, in a rush as if she was afraid she might lose her nerve: "In several of my books, the hero and the heroine—well, I have slept outdoors enough times in my life to know that in reality it would not be so much romantic as simply annoying, but the—the fantasy of it—"

Josephine wasn't sure what she'd expected, but that wasn't it. "Well, that's hardly outlandish," she said. She felt Cassandra's shoulders relax, just a little. "Like the couple in _Swords and Shields_ , in the forest?"

"And in _The Heir of Tanglewood_ , the scene in the meadow, with all the flowers. I know that in a real meadow there would be insects and bits of dry grass poking you all over and dirt everywhere, and of course someone could walk in on you at any time and that is _not_ something I would like, but the romance of it...." She trailed off. "Has always appealed to me, I suppose. Although not the one in _Seas of Passion_. Even for romance I cannot get past the reality of sand."

Josephine said, "No, sand sounds distinctly unpleasant," but her mind was spinning. After all that build-up, she had been expecting something truly impossible, or at least exceptionally difficult, like sex in Celene's throne room. (Which _had_ been done, at least according to rumor, but arranging that would have been beyond her, and at any rate neither she nor Cassandra was willing to take that kind of risk.)

But this was _well_ within the realm of possibility. 

"It is a foolish thought," Cassandra said, with a sigh.

Josephine folded their hands together, raised their joined fingers to kiss Cassandra's knuckles. "I don't think it's foolish at all," she said.

"You are a kind woman, then," Cassandra said, and closed her eyes, settling down, drowsily, further into Josephine's lap. 

Josephine stroked her hair, lightly, and began to plot.

* * *

The next day, during one of her precious breaks, she made a list, because lists were what she did. She made it in cipher—her best cipher—because it was not a list that should fall into anyone's hands. She had several ciphers of different strengths, and for different purposes. Some were designed to be easily broken; others were meant for genuine security, known only by herself and certain trusted agents. Several of them were known by all of the inner circle, used for messages passed between them. Most of them, Leliana also knew. This was one that Leliana theoretically did not.

Nevertheless, after a moment, she wrote, "Leliana, this is private and of no concern to you. If you read further, I will be extremely disappointed." That probably would not stop her, but it might make her feel a little bad.

Then she began.

The first bullet point she wrote said, "Find appropriate location. Isolated but within walking distance of Skyhold. Level ground." After a moment, she added, "Flowers."

The second bullet point said, "Acquire guard schedule." Cullen was meticulous about ensuring that his men patrolled everything within a day's ride of Skyhold. This was a good thing—in addition to keeping them all appraised of any enemy movements in the vicinity, it kept the bandits down—but was a potential inconvenience if she and Cassandra did not wish to be disturbed, which they very much did not. But Cullen's men could not be everywhere at once. For obvious reasons, Cullen changed the patrol schedules regularly and kept the master copy of the schedules under lock and key, but she was confident that she could circumvent that without much difficulty.

The third bullet point said, "Discreetly clear schedule and provide excuse for absence." She needed to be able to ensure that she could be away for a few hours during the day without someone coming to look for her and being alarmed at not being able to find her. Even worse than being found mid-act by an isolated pair of patrolling soldiers would be being found by a search party. Cassandra might actually die of embarrassment. This, she considered, putting a little star next to the point, was likely to be the hardest problem to solve. She was almost always in her office during the day, leaving it only for prearranged meetings or short breaks. 

The fourth bullet point said, "Same for Cassandra." This was not likely to be _as_ difficult—Cassandra was often left largely to her own devices; someone who could not find her was likely to assume that she was training or in meditation. But it was still wise to ensure it.

The fifth bullet point—and she smiled as she wrote this one—said, "Blankets. Bottle of wine." 

After a moment, she went back to the first bullet point and underlined "Flowers" there. Priorities were important.

* * *

First, the location. This was a simple problem. Not far from Skyhold were any number of lovely meadows, so it was simply a matter of selecting one. She did not have the luxury of exploring them herself—but it was fortunate that she had cultivated a close relationship with Scout Harding. She sent a runner with a message.

Later that afternoon, Harding poked her head into the office. "You asked for me, Lady Ambassador?" she asked.

"Please, you must call me Josephine after all this time," Josephine said. (It was not always the case that she was genuinely fond of the people she cultivated a relationship with, but in this case, at least, it was true. That made it easier.) "I have a small favor to ask you."

"Of course."

"As more and more important people visit Skyhold, I am in need of greater and greater quantities of fresh flowers. I realize that it may sound trivial, but an appropriate bouquet on the right table can make a world of difference—especially to Orlesians."

"Doesn't sound silly to me," Harding said.

"There are many meadows full of flowers near Skyhold. I was hoping that you and some of your scouts could map the closest and note the ease of traveling to them, the relative safety of the area, and the density of the flowers. Once we have found some appropriate locations, I will of course use my own runners to do the actual harvesting, but...?"

(As with all the best lies, it was actually true.)

"Of course," Harding said. "After dragging themselves through the Emprise, a few days mapping flower meadows will make my scouts very happy, let me tell you."

"Wonderful," Josephine said.

Three days later, she received detailed maps with distance, elevation, number and type of flowers all mapped. She carefully selected one, and then checked off her first bullet point with a feeling of great satisfaction.

* * *

Getting the guard schedule from Cullen proved only somewhat harder. In truth, the patrol schedule was not technically a secret _to her_ —she was on the list of people who were trusted with the highest-security information about the defense of Skyhold. The problem was that she had never shown any interest in the particular before; her own tasks left her busy enough without meddling with the minutiae of Cullen's tasks. So if she suddenly asked for a copy of the patrol schedule, she had no doubt he would give it to her—but he would wonder why. She wanted to keep such niggling questions to an absolute minimum.

(This would have been a great deal easier with a co-conspirator, and Leliana would no doubt have been glad to help, but if she enlisted Leliana's help and Cassandra found out, she would be mortified. So that was out, alas.)

Instead, she paid close attention not to the patrol schedule but to _Cullen's_ schedule. The Commander kept to a very fixed—perhaps even rigid—pattern in his days. Some careful observation indicated that he updated the patrol schedules on Tuesdays, right before lunch.

It was a trivial matter to—not to _invent_ an errand to carry her to his office, but to carefully time the errand she already had. When she entered the office, Cullen was just putting the finishing touches on his patrol list. 

"Commander," she said. "I had a question for you about troop movements along the Nevarran border."

"Of course," he said, looking up. "Just one moment." He rose and crossed to the shelf on which he kept his many rolled maps, notebooks, scrolls.

While his back was turned, Josephine leaned far forward on her toes, over his desk. (Her ability to memorize a short message very quickly was part of her training. Her ability to read upside-down with facility, she blamed on Leliana's bad influence.) She quickly found the relevant patrol and memorized the details: names, days, times. 

By the time Cullen turned back with a map in hand, she was standing flat again, a look of perfect innocence on her face. "Here," he said. "As updated as we can make it."

"Thank you," she said, accepting it. The noon bell rang, and as they walked together to the midday meal, she scribbled down what she had read. It was a fortunate thing that she wrote so much—almost constantly, really—that Cullen no doubt did not think twice of it.

After lunch, she checked off her second bullet point.

* * *

As predicted, clearing her own schedule proved the most difficult task.

It was easy enough to block off an hour of time without much question. But the meadow was twenty minutes' ride outside Skyhold at a brisk walk, probably a bit more on the return, which was uphill. Add to that the time to acquire Cassandra and spirit her out of the keep, and to change clothes and freshen up upon return, and a leisurely afternoon for the both of them, and she considered three hours her minimum. And three hours was too long for her to go undetected.

Josephine set to work.

In the end, it required a complex web of truths and half-truths and implications, such that one person thought one thing and another person thought another thing and a third thought a fourth thing and the fourth was referred back to the first. If anyone came looking for her, it would take at least five hours to sort out where she was _supposed_ to be, plenty of time for her to return.

Clearing Cassandra's schedule proved easier, by comparison. It took only a few hints and a word spoken to the Inquisitor.

Quite satisfied with herself, Josephine checked off bullet points three and four.

* * *

The final preparations were the simplest, which was how Josephine preferred things to be. 

She selected a soft but thick blanket to lay out on the ground, to protect them from the bugs and dirt that Cassandra had been worried about.

She picked out a beautiful Antivan dry white wine, perfect for a warm summer afternoon, and a pair of earthenware glasses that would not easily break on the trip.

She selected a few flaky, honey-soaked, nut-filled pastries to, ah, keep their strength up.

She chose her clothing: a dark olive dress that would not show wear. (If Leliana caught her on the way to or from, she might be mildly suspicious—the dress was not, in truth, really a summer garment—but she weighed the odds, and that was a better risk than that of someone seeing her return to Skyhold in grass-stained skirts.)

She wrote a letter explaining their timeframe and destination, in a cipher Leliana knew, in case they ran afoul of something and their location needed to be found. She placed it under the blotter on her desk: a place that Leliana was unlikely to look except in a crisis, but would quickly look during a crisis, per their pre-arranged signal.

And then she set out to find Cassandra.

* * *

Cassandra was sharpening her sword outside the forge when Josephine found her. The brilliance in her eyes when she looked up was a reward all by itself. "Josephine," she said.

"Cassandra," she replied. "Could I perhaps steal you away for a bit?"

"I—of course," Cassandra said, standing and sheathing her sword. "Is it something important?"

"Oh," Josephine said, "very important." And then she could not maintain her expression as she caught Cassandra's arm. (By this point, by now, everyone in Skyhold knew of their entanglement; there was little point in trying to hide it in such a place as the training yard.) "Very important to me, that is. Not very important to the fate of the world."

"Well," Cassandra said, "very important to you is very important to me."

Josephine felt herself flush with warmth. She kissed Cassandra's cheek, and said, "Then saddle Ember and meet me at the back gate."

Cassandra gave her a questioning look... but didn't question. And that, Josephine knew, was a sign of enormous trust.

* * *

Ember was Cassandra's favorite horse, a big, handsome blood bay mare with a white blaze on her nose. ("Ember" was her stable name. She had a formal name and pedigree nearly as long as Cassandra's. Josephine wondered sometimes whether that was part of why Cassandra felt such a kinship with her.) She was more horse than many people—including, to be honest, Josephine—could handle, but she and Cassandra quite clearly doted on each other.

She knew from experience that she could ride pillion on Ember, and so when she appeared without her own favored horse, Mallow, Cassandra mounted and offered her a hand up without even asking. Josephine settled herself comfortably, her arm securely around Cassandra's waist, her satchel settled on her opposite hip.

"Where are we going?" Cassandra asked.

"Down the road about fifteen minutes, then north," Josephine said. When Cassandra hesitated, Josephine leaned forward and kissed the strip of exposed skin between her collar and her hairline. "I've cleared your schedule. And my own."

Cassandra turned her head just a little, just so that Josephine could see the glint of one fire-bright eye. "What have you got planned?" she asked, half-suspicious and half-amused.

"You'll see. Trust me," Josephine said.

And to her credit, Cassandra did. It was quite a pleasant ride, the early-summer air soft on her face, her arm secure around Cassandra's waist. Ember's gaits were magnificently smooth, so that Josephine could lean forward, rest her cheek against the back of Cassandra's shoulder and enjoy the mellow air. 

After a while, she said, "Turn off here." They took a path—not even a path, exactly; a deerpath, perhaps—through the alpine wood, until they opened out suddenly into the bowl of a meadow, one that Harding's reports had described to her but that she had not yet seen.

It was a riot of flowers: silvery crystal grace mingling with all colors of wild-rose brambles, flax-flowers and butterwort in a riot of blue and gold, brilliant spikes of Andraste's blood entwined with sweet pink houndblossom. 

"Here," Josephine said, and dismounted. "Do you need to do anything particular for Ember?"

"No, she can graze here if she likes. Master Dennet takes the horses to the meadows for grazing from time to time... what is this about?" She gave Ember a firm smack on the hindquarters to send her into the field and then turned to Josephine, her expression one at once tender and suspicious. An odd combination of expressions.

"Do you remember," Josephine said, "something you told me a few weeks back? That you might want to do?"

Cassandra's eyebrows raised in surprise. "But—we—"

"I ensured that our calendars would be clear for the next two and a half hours at least. And Cullen's patrol will not be through the area for another six hours at the earliest." Josephine let her voice drop to a more silky register. "We have the glade to ourselves, my lady."

Cassandra's smile, incredulous and delighted, was like the sunrise. She leaned forward to kiss Josephine, to kiss her and kiss her, swift and sweet as the scent of crystal grace. 

And then very suddenly Cassandra tumbled them to the ground.

Cassandra twisted at the last moment to catch them, so that she was the one who hit the earth and Josephine simply landed atop her, breathless and laughing wild before another kiss. And another, another, the scent of crushed grass and of sweet flowers all around, and she framed Cassandra's face in her hands and kissed her as if it was all the breath she had in the world.

Cassandra broke the kiss first, laughing. "I didn't think," she said, "I never thought that you would actually _manage_ it."

"Is it as you imagined?" Josephine asked, kissing her cheekbones, her chin.

"It is perfect," Cassandra said. "Flowers and sunlight... and no sand."

Josephine laughed, laughter that was swallowed up in another kiss and another, lips and teeth and tongue all sharp and tender until Cassandra broke off and sat up to begin to disrobe.

"Oh," Josephine said, "wait. I remember what you said about bugs and dirt." And as Cassandra watched, half-laughing and half-impressed, she pulled a blanket from her satchel and spread it on the spot of grass they'd crushed. "There," she said.

"Thoughtful as ever," Cassandra said, and then together they struggled to remove their clothes.

Cassandra was beautiful always, lean and muscular, her scars a silvery map on her olive skin and her hair as sharp and shining as obsidian. But in the light of midafternoon she was even more beautiful, her skin turned to honey and gold, limned by the sun. She was all precious metal, all treasure, her eyes a hidden brilliance.

"Maker," Cassandra said, once Josephine had divested herself of her grass-stain-proof olive dress, and the chemise under it, and the half-corset beneath that: "You are so beautiful." And Josephine blushed at such a compliment given not in the forgiving light of candles but in the true light of the sun.

They fitted themselves together, mouth to mouth and body to body. Cassandra's lips were soft against hers, her tongue pressing into her, seeking, tasting. Josephine's thigh slipped up between Cassandra's legs, until she could feel Cassandra's heat, her slickness, her desire. And Cassandra matched it, her own muscular leg sliding up to rub against Josephine until Josephine was shuddering, gasping, riding her, sobbing into her mouth.

Josephine was the first to break, grinding against Cassandra's thigh, the friction all she needed to drive her over the edge. She broke their wet open-mouthed kiss to wail into the open air, and felt Cassandra bite at the juncture of her throat and shoulder, making her hips jerk hard against the friction of Cassandra's body against her. Limp and wet with her release, she writhed her way down Cassandra's body to part her thighs, to breathe the heady scent of her arousal as it mingled with the intoxicating scent of the flowers all around them. Cassandra was soaking wet, already, and so close that it felt almost like cheating to part her, to press lips against her, to lick at her—to press fingers into her, because Cassandra always liked something inside her when she came—and to bring her touch by touch to the climax that would wrench a gorgeous groan from her.

Afterwards Cassandra lay panting on the blanket, and Josephine curled around her. 

"Well," Cassandra said, after a moment, "I should tell you more often about my fantasies."

"You should," Josephine said, kissing her temple. "You should tell me all of them. And we still have another hour at least."

"Mm." Cassandra turned her head to capture Josephine's lips, a slow soft kiss. "I do not know what I have done to deserve this, not only someone to love but a beloved who indulges my most foolish thoughts."

Josephine did not know how to answer that, hid her face against Cassandra's shoulder. After a moment, she said, "There is wine in my satchel. And pastries."

Cassandra chuckled, low and rich and throaty. "Well, we must keep our strength up," she said, and Josephine found herself blushing despite herself.

The wine, wrapped in its icy cloths, was refreshing on a warm day. And the pastries had crumbled, but then, there were certain advantages to that.

"I have rarely seen breasts as lovely as yours," Josephine said, chasing a crumb of honey-soaked nut pastry down Cassandra's cleavage.

"Mm," Cassandra said. "No, yours are the more lovely. So full and soft...." 

"But yours are the most shapely I've ever—" Josephine said, and then laughed when Cassandra tweaked her ear.

"I am not going to argue with you whose breasts are more nice," Cassandra said, dryly.

"Fair," Josephine said, leaning forward to kiss her. "Between the two of us, we have the nicest bosoms in Skyhold," and she swallowed Cassandra's laughter, rolled over into another round, full of softness.

* * *

"Mmm," Josephine said, stretching out. "I suppose we should return to Skyhold soon."

"I suppose so," Cassandra said, stretched out beside her and slipping one long-fingered hand down her hip. Naked, Cassandra was lean and strong as a mountain lion, bronzed and sculpted as a statue. The sunlight loved her, turned her into a warrior goddess, some creature from legend. It seemed a shame to see her put on armor again.

"I wish we could—" Josephine began, and then sat up and surveyed herself. Flower petals scattered all over her skin, across her breasts and the curve of her belly and the soft width of her hips and thighs, tangled in her hair. She brushed at them, felt the cling to her skin, her fingers. "Oh, Maker," she said. "I'm a mess."

Cassandra pushed herself up on one elbow. "Not a mess," she said. "You look like an Avvar goddess." Josephine paused, startled, and Cassandra wet her lips. "Josephine summer-bringer, flower's daughter, lady of the fields."

Josephine laughed, self-conscious. "You flatter me."

"I tell the truth," Cassandra said, her mouth twitching. "You know I always tell the truth." She pressed her lips, softly, to the center of Josephine's collarbone. "Come on," she said, after a moment. "I'll help you get dressed."

* * *

They made their way back to Skyhold, and if Josephine's leaning against Cassandra's back was perhaps more languid than before, well, no one needed to know. They split up before they returned, and Josephine returned to her room and changed out of the grass-stain-proof olive dress, refreshed herself, washed her face.

She was smug, yes, in the success of her plot. She was smug, she was smug, smug and pleased and joyful.

Until, in the war room that evening, Leliana leaned forward, with a little smile on her lips, and without a word plucked a flower petal from her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was not intentional to post the "sex outdoors" chapter on May First, but... I can't say I'm unhappy that it turned out that way. :D


	12. Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine asks, Cassandra remembers, and things are more than they seem to be.

At first, Josephine had worried that Cassandra didn't like to talk about her scars. But she quickly learned: Cassandra had no problem whatever talking about scars. Scars, she felt neutral about. 

But there were certain topics that she wasn't comfortable talking about until they had been together some time. And some of her scars were in that category.

For the first few months, when Josephine had touched the prominent scar on Cassandra's forearm, Cassandra had shrugged and changed the subject. And Josephine had not pressed. But now, for once, warm and tangled together in bed, when Josephine's fingers traced that irregular line, Cassandra just smiled and said, "I fell out of a tree, when I was... let's see. Eight? Nine, maybe?" 

Josephine brought her arm up to kiss the scar, the silvery trail there, quiet for the moment. She tried to imagine Cassandra that young, her distinctive cheekbones not yet visible under the baby fat. No less fierce, though, no doubt. "How adventurous."

"I was hiding from..." Cassandra frowned. "Someone. Probably a governess at that age, although it might have been my uncle. My enthusiasm to get away was greater than my ability to tell which tree limbs could bear my weight. My uncle had it healed enough to ensure that it would set straight and not become infected, but left it unhealed enough that I had to wear a sling for weeks—to teach me caution, he said."

"Mm. And did it work?"

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and gave her a look so flat that Josephine giggled. "What do you think?" she said. Josephine kissed her palm, then, her fingertips. Cassandra went on: "I used to hide so many places back then. From governesses, drawing teachers, dancing masters, sometimes my uncle—he was so determined to make a real lady of me—and later from suitors. Trees were best, outdoors and the leaves could hide me. Ledges outside windows and balconies, too, if I could get out onto the sill and slide sideways—although that was exposed, you could see me easily from outside if you were looking. Closets and cabinets—not in themselves, they knew to look for me there, but I could fold myself up on top shelves where people didn't believe I'd fit, especially before I reached puberty and started to grow." She laughed. "I was small until I was ten, I was so angry when I realized I was going to get tall and not fit in most of my favorite hiding spots." 

"I'm afraid I can't be too sorry. I like you tall."

The back of Cassandra's knuckles stroked along Josephine's cheek. "Well, there is that. And there was one spot, I couldn't reach it until I was eleven and really started to get long in the leg. I had to go all the way to the top of the stairs in the east wing and stand up on the bannister—on tiptoe, at first—and reach up to the lintel over the door and pull myself up, then hang there and reach up again to the sconce and pull up again, and there was an alcove formed by the way the ceiling above the stairs slanted up to meet the ceiling of the top floor. Absolutely impossible to see me from the floor, once I was in it. I used to bring books up there and stay for hours and listen to them calling for me. Then finally one of the servants caught me climbing into it and they had it blocked off." She grimaced. "Although it's probably just as well. If I'd fallen from that bannister, or if the wall sconce had snapped off, I would've fallen down at least three flights of stairs and broken my neck. It's just as well I left when I was fourteen or I probably would have resorted to climbing on the roof—and we hardly had the money to keep the tiles repaired, I would've been at real risk of falling to my death there."

"It's hard for me to imagine," Josephine said. "I was so unhappy when I _left_ my family. When they sent me to Val Royeaux, I sobbed for hours. And I was older. Fifteen."

"You liked them," Cassandra said, simply, and it was the sheer simplicity of the statement that made Josephine's heart ache.

(Almost she wanted to correct her: she didn't just like her family, she _loved_ them. But they weren't the same thing, were they, liking and loving? She both liked and loved her family—even Yvette when she insisted on telling every embarrassing story of Josephine's childhood, even Laurent when he bought the most ridiculous cravat and insisted on wearing it to every social occasion, she didn't just love them, she _liked_ them. Liked seeing them, spending time with them. Missed them when she was gone. 

Cassandra had quite clearly both liked and loved her brother. Had she ever felt that way about anyone else in her family? Josephine wondered.)

"Yes," Josephine said. "I did. I do." She kissed Cassandra softly. "They will like you too, you know. When you meet them."

Cassandra gave her a skeptical look. "I am afraid that your own affection for me has skewed your perspective," she said. "I am generally not considered very likable."

"I find you most charming."

"You..." Cassandra's fingertips slipped around Josephine's waist, drawing her closer. "...are a biased source. At best."

"I do not think I can deny that," Josephine said against her lips.

They kissed for a while, softly, without expectation, and then Josephine settled against Cassandra's side. Cassandra said, "You are not the first to try to flatter me in that fashion, but you are the first who I ever believed meant it."

"Oh?" Josephine asked, mouth warm against the pulse in Cassandra's throat.

"Oh, yes. There were many who would have wanted to marry a Pentaghast daughter and heir—while most of my parents' holdings were seized, there were certain inalienable properties that would always go to me—and who were willing to court me no matter how unappealing I might be. And of course the title, princess, however distant a princess it might be—that still carried considerable weight." She smiled at the ceiling, in the darkness, the candlelight. "In retrospect it was somewhat amusing, the way they attempted to flatter me. There was not much to flatter."

"Oh come, now, you are plenty attractive and you know it." Josephine dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

"Whether I am attractive now or not, when I was thirteen I was skinny and clumsy, all arm and leg, my hands and feet far too big, and I had spots." Cassandra snorted. "And my features... took some growing into. I had a face like a horse. Actually, no, that is unfair, horses are quite attractive creatures." She smiled faintly. "One of them was sufficiently quick on his feet to think to compliment my hair, which I admit was not bad-looking. It was long, then, and jet black, and the maid was instructed to put it up in the latest fashion. ...After that I locked myself in my dressing room—well, I didn't lock myself, my uncle was intelligent enough to not give me a key, but I jammed it shut with towels. And then with the maids pounding on the door outside, I cut off all my hair with a nail knife this long." She held her thumb and forefinger a bare two inches apart.

Josephine couldn't help giggling.

Casandra's smile widened. "Yes, it looked exactly as bad as you are picturing. Possibly worse. And it took forever; the knife was none too sharp and I had a lot of hair. Afterwards I was dragged before my uncle in disgrace, but it was absolutely worth it; after that no one could think _what_ to compliment me on, it not being tactful even among the Nevarran nobility to say 'you are homely and awkward and ill-tempered but I am attracted to your title.'"

Josephine slid her hand through Cassandra's hair, glossy and silky, tickling her palm. "And have you worn it short since then?"

"No, I've gone back and forth between long and short. I prefer short, I think, but for much of my training and after, it was long. Easier to wash it and braid it and forget about it. Short, I have to find someone to keep it trimmed."

"Mm," Josephine said, stroking her hair, the sharp lines of her cheeks. "I like you as you are. I.. prefer you as you are. And I would help you tend your hair, if that was what needed to be done."

"Huh." Cassandra kissed her, short and light. "I am nothing that my uncle would have wished me to be. I am—"

"—you are, however, what you were always meant to be." Josephine leaned into her, forehead to forehead. "I love you as you are now, lean and graceful and lovely. But I would have loved you had I known you when you were skinny and clumsy and spotted, too." Cassandra laughed. Josephine went on: "Because I know you. My love. You are who I know you to be."

"And you are as I know you, my lady ambassador," Cassandra said, quiet, and kissed her in the afternoon light.


	13. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine receives bad news, Cassandra retreats for the first time in her life, and emptiness is worse than anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most of these can be read in any order, this and the next three (forthcoming) all fit together and should be read in order, ideally.

Josephine read the letter for the third time, as if, somehow, the act of rereading could make the words change.

The worst of it was that the letter was not at all stiff, or cold, or impersonal. It was not a decree from on high to rail about. It was all very much in Mamma's voice: chatty and concerned and warm with delight. She could almost see her mother, heavily-silvered hair wound elegant as a crown around her head, crinkles around her eyes, full of maternal triumph.

A year ago, two years ago, she might have been delighted, too, at the news of her advantageous betrothal.

(Even then it most likely would have surprised her; she had always assumed that she would have some say in the matter, especially as she currently managed the Montilyet affairs in most ways. But in this situation it was sensible: she could not leave Skyhold for the weeks—months, even—it would take to return to Antiva, negotiate a betrothal, and return. 

And no doubt her parents were worried that this very position, in the middle of nowhere, would reduce her prospects, and had acted to prevent that.)

She rested her hands flat on the desk and drew a slow breath to steady herself. Her heart said, _It can't be, not now, not just now._

Her head said, _It was always going to happen, and 'someday' cannot be 'someday' forever. And you are already older than most of your friends were when they married._ She knew that her parents had delayed such a thing, in fact, deliberately, because her positions first in Orlais and now here brought prestige and credit to both her and to the family. But that was never meant to last forever. It was always understood, from when she was a small child, that she would return to Antiva, would marry, would have children. Heirs.

And she had never resented that fate (oh, to hear Yvette tell it, she had gloated over it), except....

Her hands trembled, and she curled her fingers around the edge of the desk to still them. _But not now_ , she thought. _Cassandra and I have just—it is too soon, too early—it has not been enough_ time _—_

She picked the letter up again, folded it neatly, creased it. And that was another thing. She would have to tell Cassandra. _Maker_ , she would have to tell Cassandra, would have to tell her as soon as she returned, because—these days they were... exuberant... with their homecomings, and even a single such night would be at the cost of her reputation—and while she might take that risk on her own, she could not permit that cost to fall on Laurien and Yvette and Antoine and Emil, not to mention her parents. Such disgrace could readily undo all that she had done to bring the Montilyets back to title and renown and prosperity.

No, she would have to tell Cassandra immediately, she would have to tell her immediately, and there could be no thoughts of _too soon_ , of _a little more time_.

(Besides which: in her heart of hearts, she knew that it would always be _too soon_ to leave Cassandra for a stranger. Always.)

* * *

It was late in the evening when she found Leliana in the rookery. Leliana was still at work; Leliana worked even later than Josephine herself. (Although, in truth, Josephine's schedule had skewed a bit earlier the past few months, just as Cassandra had taken to lingering in bed a bit longer of a morning than she once would have.) But she looked up with a smile at Josephine's entrance—a smile that fell away when she saw Josephine's face. "Josie. What's wrong?"

"Based on the last raven you received, how soon will it be before the Inquisitor returns?" Josephine asked.

"Perhaps a week. Five days if they have good fortune; perhaps ten if they don't." Leliana put her quill down.

Josephine tossed the folded letter on Leliana's table. Leliana's eyebrows rose so far they vanished behind her hood as she reached for it. 

Josephine found that she couldn't bear to watch her as she read it; instead, she turned to the atrium railing, gripped it, and looked—not down at the floor far below, but up, at the ravens shifting and shuffling with their restless sleep. Sleek dark shapes, heads tucked.

After a moment, Leliana said, softly, "Oh, Josie."

"It is bad enough that I must—that we cannot—but that I must sit with this alone for a week or _more_ makes it all the worse."

"These things can be got out of. I don't need to tell you that, milady ambassador." Leliana's voice was quiet and thoughtful, in a way that might have seemed heartless, except that her calm steadied Josephine's nerves even as they ratcheted up and down. 

"I know. But it takes time. Months, maybe years. And until then, we could not—and by then she will be, where? Here, still, or elsewhere to do the Chantry's will? Where will I be?" She turned, back to the railing, feeling it pressing hard against her spine even through the layers of her clothes. "And besides," she began, and faltered.

"And besides," Leliana finished, "your parents will not stop at one attempt at arranging you a marriage."

"Yes," Josephine said.

There was silence in the rookery, a deep velvety silence rare even for this hushed space, with the birds asleep and only the sound of their cages gently creaking to fill the air. 

"It is so stupid," Josephine said. "I have known ever since I was a little girl that this would happen, as it would for all my friends, as it would for all my associates when I was in Orlais. It is not as if it is some surprise. It had never much bothered me before." Even during her affairs in Orlais (few and discreet as they were, per her position), the thought had not bothered her overmuch. "But now—"

"It's different," Leliana said. "When you're in love. Everything's different."

Josephine's fingers slid down the wooden bars of the railing, tightened and relaxed. After a long moment, she said, "What am I going to do?"

"Begin what you need to do to break off the betrothal—correctly, and with all honor to all. Explain to Cassandra; explain everything. And then... we will do what we can."

Josephine nodded.

* * *

Normally, the sight of the Inquisitor riding through the gates with Cassandra at her side filled Josephine with joy, as sweet and undeniable as flowers blooming. 

Today, seeing Cassandra's proud figure on horseback—recognizable even from this distance, armor bright in the afternoon light—filled her with a sick anxiety. For the whole week she had prayed for the Inquisitor's swift return, to at least break the horrible miasma of anticipation that hovered over her life. Now, she found herself wishing for another day before she had to say these particular words to Cassandra.

It was a few hours later that Cassandra came to her room—as had become the custom—changed and freshly-bathed and as beautiful as sunlight shining through a thundercloud. And oh, she smiled at Josephine, that private smile she only showed here, when they were alone, and Josephine ached. "I missed you," Cassandra said, and caught Josephine's hands and pulled her in for a kiss.

Josephine didn't pull away. One kiss, here, in her room, was safe enough—and, oh, that was not all of it: the rest of it was that she was weak, she was weak, she could not have ducked Cassandra's kiss if it had been her life at stake. Cassandra kissed her, rough-skinned fingers gentle on the back of her neck—and then pulled away and looked at her with brows a little lowered, and said, "Something's wrong. What's wrong?"

"There's something I need to tell you," Josephine said, pulling her to the settee, to sit.

Cassandra's expression of concern deepened. "Whatever it is," she said, "I will help you."

Josephine wanted to laugh, or weep, or both at once. _My love, you are making this so much harder, and you don't even know it._ Giving bad news was among the many things she had been taught, in her extensive training. She knew not to draw it out. "I received word from my parents. They have arranged a marriage for me." She didn't want to look at Cassandra when she said it, but it would have been an unkind cowardice to look away. So she held Cassandra's gaze, and saw the way her eyes widened in shock. "To an Antivan nobleman, Lord Otranto."

She was watching Cassandra, and so she saw the exact moment that her expression shuttered itself. Just a little. Just a little. But oh, that hurt more than any amount of rage that Cassandra might pour out in this moment. "I... see," she said.

"I have leave to remain at Skyhold until the Inquisition's mission is done; they are not recalling me." Josephine had not felt this awkward in Cassandra's presence in... ...Josephine had _never_ felt this awkward in Cassandra's presence, as what had been a private haven turned suddenly and horribly into a gulf.

Cassandra's gaze fell to her hands. "Do you want to marry this man?" she asked.

"Cassandra, I don't even _know_ him." Josephine realized that she had clasped her hands together so tightly that her knuckles were turning bloodless-white; she relaxed them deliberately. "I had nothing to do with this and I don't want it. Leliana and I are working to break the betrothal in... in a way that will dishonor neither my family nor his. But such things can take months. Sometimes years."

Cassandra nodded. Her expression and her body were both still, in a way that nearly frightened Josephine, who had never been frightened of Cassandra. When she was a little irritated, Cassandra sparred, or sharpened her tongue on Varric or Sera or Bull—who, in fairness, gave back as good as they got. When she was very angry, Cassandra raged with the righteous fury of the Maker. But Josephine had never seen her like this.

Josephine had negotiated life-and-death treaties with aplomb and eloquence, and yet now she seemed unable to find words, to string them together properly. "And in the meantime, we cannot—you and I cannot—it would dishonor all involved if it was known that I had a—a lover during my engagement."

"I understand," Cassandra said, and she gave a thin, faded, wintry smile. "I may hate politics, but I have lived in Orlais most of my life. I do understand the... rules governing such things."

"I will seek to have this undone as quickly as I am able, Cassandra, I swear to it. And in the meantime—" She swallowed. "I—could not ask you to... wait for me, if you do not want to. If you—"

Cassandra laughed, a short hard humorless sound, and rubbed her hands over her face. "Josephine, you are the only person I have loved in nearly two decades. I do not think that is a concern."

Josephine swallowed and nodded. "I will work on this as fast as I am able," she said again.

Cassandra rested her elbows on her knees, a hand over her eyes. "You must do what you feel is right for yourself," she said. "And your family."

 _I will not give you up so soon,_ Josephine thought, with a weight of ferocity that surprised even herself. She would fight, oh yes. "I am," she said.

Cassandra lowered her hand and looked at her, and for a moment, Josephine saw that secret hidden softness that she had come to love so much as she nodded.

They parted not long after that—'if we are to avoid the appearance of impropriety, then I must not linger,' Cassandra had said—and Josephine went to bed alone. And that was not so unusual; she slept alone whenever Cassandra was on the road, which was often, and even now when their schedules fell out of sync they sometimes slept apart, for convenience. 

But it was different, knowing why, and her bed felt as big as a continent and far too cold without Cassandra in it.

* * *

The next day, when she returned to her room to freshen up after the midday meal, she found that Cassandra had been there. Though they kept separate quarters, when they were together it was almost always in her room, and so Cassandra had left any number of things there: her kohl and brush and mirror alongside Josephine's cosmetics, a few changes of clothing hanging beside Josephine's more extensive wardrobe, a few books, a whetstone. A spare pair of gloves. A soft old linen tunic that Cassandra liked to wear in the evenings. The lotion she preferred to use on her hands; a jar of the salve she liked for sore muscles. 

They were gone, now, all of them carefully removed in Josephine's absence. And though Josephine knew that that was not only a good idea but necessary (for servants did gossip—no more and no less than any other people), and though Josephine knew that it was a kindness to do it swiftly and quietly and not draw it out, still, it made her room seem all the more empty without those little things.

There was a letter on the dressing table, in Cassandra's familiar careful, spiky handwriting:

_You know that I am very bad with words, and even worse when those words are written. And I know that you are trying to solve this, but I also know that such things cannot always be solved. For all that I rail at its imperfections, this world and this life is always imperfect._

_But it is important that you know, above all, that I love you, always._

_\- C_

She permitted herself to cry, a little, sitting on the end of her bed. And then she washed her face and refreshed her makeup and tidied her hair, and went out to face the world again, because duty could not be put aside even for heartbreak.


	14. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra is bereft, Josephine can offer only words on paper, and you cannot fight the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most of these chapters can be read in any order, this is the second in a set of four that should be read together. You should read the prior chapter first (if you haven't already), and the next two chapters (forthcoming) after.

Once, long ago, when she had been barely more than a child, Ser Byron had told Cassandra, "No one, least of all me, will ever say you lack for ferocity or courage, child." (He was, at the time, the only one who she would bear to call her 'child.') "But you must learn how to be when you have no enemy that you can attack with your sword."

Brash and arrogant with youth, she had said, "I will let you know when I find an enemy I cannot knock down, Ser."

He had laughed—that was why they had gotten along so well; when she was ridiculous (which she often had been, at that age; she knew that now) he had neither fought her nor ignored her, both of which were counterproductive. Instead, he had laughed, that warm laugh that had not hint of mockery, that invited laughter in return. "You cannot knock down the wind, Cassandra," he had said. And it had become a catchphrase, a joke between them all through her training: _there you are, trying to knock down the wind again, Cassandra!_

It was a lesson she had learned well in the intervening years—Maker, more years than she liked to think of. And now she knew (usually, at least) which problems she could solve with the sword and when she was trying to knock down the wind. (She wished Ser Byron had lived long enough to see it.)

It had been some time since she had felt such a rage at an enemy as insubstantial as this.

"Normally, when I say 'Are you trying to kill me, Cassandra?', I'm exaggerating somewhat," Blackwall said as he pushed himself back to his feet.

"I—am sorry," Cassandra said, lowering her sword as the rage ebbed, leaving her merely embarrassed. 

Blackwall chuckled. "It's all right. Keeps me on my toes." And the expression on his face turned to one of sympathy—that _sympathetic look_ that she had come to know and dread on all of her companions of the road, those who knew of her relationship with Josephine. Those who knew, now, that the relationship was, if not dead, then at least comatose.

She knew their sympathy was well-meant, and yet it whetted the anger that could have no outlet, the anger at the wind.

(No, if she was honest with herself: not anger. Not truly. Pain, and this the lashing out of an animal in pain. Oh, what a fool she had been, to give her heart to one who was not free to truly pledge hers in return. She knew the noble houses, and while she did not know Antiva well she knew Nevarra and Orlais; she should have known that the charming, beautiful, brilliant, accomplished daughter of a prominent house would not be free to promise her future where she wished, but must be willing to marry where her household needed her to marry. 

She had forgotten. She had forgotten because she was a fool and a romantic. She had forgotten, a mad amnesia in the warmth of Josephine's smile, in the private world they had made together for a few months, before the realities of the world had brought it all to a halt.)

She returned to her rooms to wipe the sweat from her face and arms. And as she did almost every day—because she was a weak woman as well as foolish—she paused and took a bit of paper from beneath her pillow. It was wrinkled from staying there all day, and the edges were getting soft from frequent handling, and there were spots along the lower edge, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from continuing to bring it out and look at it, even as she knew the wear would eventually make it fall apart.

_Cassandra, my love,_

_You know that I will do all in my power to bring an end to this betrothal so that we may be together again. Though it may take some time, I know it can be done—to put modesty aside for a moment, I am very good at what I do._

_But that is beside the point._

_You say you are not skilled at words, so I will be skilled for both of us. I love you as a ship loves the wind, my heart and my strength. And though I do not fight as you do, remember that I will not give you up without a fight._

_Yours, always,_

_Josephine_

She had thought, sometimes, in the month since she had received this note in response to her own clumsy one, that it would be better to throw it in the fire. To cut this off, to end it, this foolishness, as if she could somehow _keep_ Josephine, who so clearly had a different and better destiny than a Seeker without an order, a wayward pilgrim with no shrine to find. Surely it would be better for Josephine to be freed. Surely it would be better for Cassandra to accept her destiny, to not reach for more than she could have.

But in those moments she heard a voice saying _there you are again, Cassandra, trying to fight the wind_. And she put the letter back under her pillow, and pressed her hand to her mouth for a moment, and then got up and went on.


	15. Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cassandra is consumed by desperate plans, Josephine is kept in the dark, and things may be solved more quickly with steel than with diplomacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most of these chapters can be read in any order, this is the third in a set of four that should be read together. You should read the prior two chapters first (if you haven't already), and the next chapter (forthcoming) after.
> 
> The connection to the prompt word may seem pretty oblique here, but I swear it made sense in my head. :P

Cassandra could have a great deal of patience, when circumstances required it. Varric would have laughed at that, but it was true. She had, after all, spent months—nearly a year—preparing for and then completing a vigil, in almost total silence. She often did not _choose_ to be patient, but she could be patient.

In this, though, the waiting wore at her, like a burden that she must carry and that grew heavier with each passing day. The waiting weighed her until she felt bowed under it, and all the worse because there was nothing that she could do. Her heart—and sometimes it seemed, her life, her happiness—were in Josephine's hands, balanced carefully on the hope that Josephine could end her betrothal honorably.

(She thought, sometimes, that perhaps it would be easier to give up all hope, to resign herself to a life alone. She had been alone most of her life, and not unhappily. But then she saw Josephine, at the war table or across a room, and her foolish heart leapt all the same. Hope was, perhaps, not something you could simply _decide_ to give up.)

She was not sure how clear this all was, though, until one day at the start of their second month of enforced separation, when Leliana stopped her after she'd delivered a highly-sensitive missive. "Cassandra." 

"Yes?"

"You and Josephine. You two wear your misery like heavy cloaks, for all to see," she said. "Well, you more than Josephine, she is by far the better actor—but anyone who knows her can see it."

"You are one to talk," Cassandra said.

Leliana laughed. "Ah, yes, but a certain mysterious darkness helps my cause rather than hindering it. Whereas Josephine must be the bright face of the Inquisition—and you, its shining warrior, calling down the wrath of the Maker as a beam of holy fire on your enemies." Cassandra snorted, and Leliana smiled beneath her hood and said, "I do not make up the stories, I only repeat them."

"I do not know what you expect me to do. I am doing all I can to remain on an even—even—oh, what's the phrase?"

"An even keel. That's a naval metaphor; you must have gotten it from Josephine."

"I have gotten many things from Josephine," Cassandra said, and she fancied Leliana's smile turned a shade more sympathetic. "At any rate, this is not a problem that I can solve."

"Ah," Leliana said. "That may not be entirely true. There is another possibility. It would be entirely honorable and respectable for you to... how to put this. To duel your rival for Josephine's hand and honor."

Cassandra couldn't help it; she quite frankly stared. "You mean it is not sufficient for Josephine to say simply that she does not want to marry the gentleman—that would cause a scandal—and yet if I _kill_ him it is all proper and legal?"

"You are not generally expected to kill your opponent in a duel such as this," Leliana said, with a faint air of amused reproach. "Such duels are generally fought until one party surrenders or is disarmed, not to the death."

"Huh. Still—"

"Marriage arrangements are highly political in Antiva, as you know. But the dueling system is...." Leliana paused, as if seeking the words. "...It is an old tradition, for one thing; some might say archaic, though it is still entirely legal and socially proper. Its purpose, as I understand it, is to provide an... outlet for feelings of unusual devotion or passion, in a system that can otherwise be quite... bloodless. Metaphorically and literally."

"So how would it... work?" Cassandra asked, trying, oh, _trying_ not to allow hope to rise too far in her. It could all still come to naught, and yet....

"Simple enough. I send a message on your behalf to indicating that you wish to duel for Lady Montilyet's heart and honor. If Lord Otranto agrees—and he no doubt will; it would be a very poor showing for a young nobleman to turn down such a request, and while it would be his right to do so his reputation might never recover—then you will meet at a time and place of your mutual agreement, and you will duel with weapons of his choosing. Most likely a rapier or dueling sabre. If he wins, the betrothal contract stands. If you are the victor, the contract is broken, but honorably and legally; in that case, Josephine is not compelled to act in any particular way, and may choose either of your or neither. They say that the tradition has its roots in a very old romantic legend, but most likely that is apocryphal."

Cassandra thought that she would like to hear it, apocryphal or not, but she wasn't about to say so to Leliana.

"So," Leliana said. "Shall I send the message? Would you like to try this?"

Cassandra felt the air leave her lungs in a bark of a laugh. "Yes, of course. If there is any chance that I can end this, then of course I would take it. You... are certain that it would not oblige Josephine in any way?"

Leliana's expression was wry. "Quite sure. The lady is still free to make additional betrothal arrangements, or not to marry. But Cassandra, I don't believe _that_ is much of a concern. She has made perfectly clear how she feels about you."

"I would not ever leash her," Cassandra said. "I know how much I would hate it if someone compelled me in that way."

"Indeed," Leliana said. "Then I will make the arrangements."

* * *

Somehow the hope that she might be able to _do_ something made the waiting all the worse. Cassandra attempted to throw herself into her work, to not think about it as she awaited Leliana's word, but it was difficult. It was difficult even though she had been trained thoroughly in the art of emptying herself of distractions, of focusing the mind.

It was hardest at night, because even when she had worked herself to exhaustion during the day, there were long silent minutes before sleep claimed her, when her mind had nothing better to do than gnaw on her worries. Her narrow cot—which had seemed more than adequate before, and was blessedly warm thanks to the residual heat of the daytime forge-fires far below—felt at once too cramped and too empty now; she had grown too used to the feeling of Josephine warm and soft beside her. Josephine got cold easily, and so even if they fell asleep without touching she would migrate toward Cassandra in the night. Cassandra even missed waking up with a face full of hair, curling under her nose and threatening to get in her mouth. 

And the night seemed to invite fretting. What if this Lord Otranto flouted tradition—for it was merely tradition, and not law—and refused to duel her? What if... well, she was unlikely to lose a sword fight against a man who was not a professional soldier or warrior himself, but what if she broke one of the innumerable rules of such engagements and voided the result? 

What if Josephine was angry with her for taking this step?

(What if Josephine still did not want her? Defeating Lord Otranto would still not make her a suitable partner for as exceedingly eligible a noblewoman as Josephine Montilyet....)

She turned over on her side and pressed a hand to her belly, drawing slow deep breaths as she had been taught so long ago—when she was thirteen, fourteen, ragged with anger and blasted with grief. Deep breaths to still the body, mantras to still the mind. _For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light_.

Sleep came in time... but not as swiftly as she would have liked.

* * *

Finally, Leliana sent her word to meet in the armory. Cassandra knew her early arrival showed her overeagerness and could not care.

"He has accepted," Leliana said, as soon as she arrived, and Cassandra felt at least one worry unknot itself.

"Then I suppose I should brush up on dueling etiquette," Cassandra said, and she was not quite able to keep the disdain out of her voice. The armory had many kinds of swords, but only a very few dueling sabers and rapiers; the battles the Inquisition took on did not generally favor them. (She had the disquieting realization that they were most likely here in case any of their steady parade of visiting dignitaries felt the need to challenge one another.) She ran her fingertips across the hilts.

Leliana smiled, resting a forearm on the low wall. "If you would care to practice, I am at your disposal."

"Do you truly believe that I need to practice my _swordplay_ to defeat some lordling?"

"No. But this is most assuredly not the kind of swordplay that you are accustomed to." She paused, and smiled her curly little teasing smile. "You are aware that in such a duel, you cannot bash your opponent over the head and then cut him in two?"

"No, that is news to me. Because I am _completely stupid_ ," Cassandra snapped, and Leliana chuckled.

"Just checking."

Cassandra lifted a saber free from its place, weighing it in her hand, getting a feel for its heft, its length. "I do confess, I have not fought with a weapon such as this in a long time. Back when I fought with two swords, one was shorter and lighter than my usual longsword, but it still had more to it than this."

"As I said, in this case for once you are not actually trying to kill him." 

"Hm," Cassandra said. "Perhaps I could use some practice after all. Not because I doubt my ability to win, but because obviously there are a number of niceties of this kind of combat that I am not familiar with."

"Twenty years in Orlais, and you did not become familiar with the customs of dueling?"

"No," Cassandra said, shortly. She was a warrior; combat was her vocation and her calling. But combat was a tool, one that—like all tools—could be turned to good purposes or evil ones. It was not a _toy._ It offended her to see it treated that way.

"Yes, then I should say some practice is almost required. This afternoon? Not in the training yard; it would raise too many questions. There is an enormous dining room beneath the great hall that is currently unused."

"I will be there," Cassandra said. And in the meantime she would brush up on the rules of dueling.

* * *

"Do I have a book on _what?_ " Dorian asked, laughter lurking behind his eyes.

"You heard me," Cassandra said through gritted teeth.

"Dreadful romance novels are one thing, but I shouldn't think you would need to read a book on the art of the sword." Nonetheless, Dorian turned and began hunting the shelves, running a light finger over the spines. 

"It's not the 'art of the sword' part," Cassandra said. "It's the rules. There are not many rules in the way I fight, besides to attempt to give a clean death where you can."

"And not to die," Dorian said. He lingered a moment on one book. "Here. This should do." The book he tugged off the shelf was old, the gold wearing off its leather cover. It was an Orlesian book, clearly, not Antivan, but that was just as well—as the duel was set to occur in Val Royeaux, they would be following Orlesian dueling rules, not Antivan. "It's nearly a century old, but I understand the forms have not changed much, that being the nature of tradition." Cassandra reached for it, but Dorian pulled it back away from her grasp. "Ah-ah, no. First I am dying to hear exactly what misadventure the Inquisitor mired you in such that you need to learn formal Orlesian dueling."

"It's not—" She paused. "It is not Inquisition business. It is... a personal matter."

"Oh?" Dorian said, and then... curse him, he was entirely too sharp for his own good. "Oh." He dropped his voice. "For Lady Josephine, then?" She had not intended to dignify that with a reply, but the color that rushed into her face was more than reply enough, apparently. Dorian handed her the book. "Then I wish you all good luck and good fortune, my lady knight. Give him a bruise for me."

"I believe I can do that," Cassandra said, taking the book.

* * *

As impressive as the dining hall was, Cassandra could see why the Inquisitor had not yet put it to its former purpose. The pillars were majestic, the wall murals beautiful if faded... but the whole place still smelled strongly and unappetizingly of mildew. And while she could not honestly categorize the spiders lurking in the corners as 'large' (ever since her trip to the Storm Coast, her idea of what constituted a large spider would forever be altered), they were certainly larger than one would prefer to see during a banquet.

Still, that made it an excellent place to practice; Leliana had been right.

"You have refreshed yourself on the official etiquette of dueling?" Leliana asked when Cassandra arrived.

"Yes."

"Good. Then I will teach you the unofficial etiquette." Leliana picked up two sabers from the bench and came to stand in the center of the room, facing Cassandra. "Lord Otranto will provide the weapons; that is his prerogative, as the challenged. As I say, it will be either a rapier or a saber. We shall start with sabers. He will most likely toss it to you—to test your reflexes, to see how readily you catch it." She lobbed one of the sabers gently in Cassandra's direction.

Cassandra caught it, neatly, one-handed. "I doubt that will be much of an issue for me," she said dryly.

"No, I imagine not. Next, he may taunt you a little--announce that he intends to win, something along that nature."

"And how do I respond to that?" Cassandra asked, taking a step back and hefting the saber, feeling out its weight and balance.

"You do not. There is the most dignity in considering such displays beneath you, unless you have a quick enough wit for a scathing and amusing retort—"

"Which I do not."

"—which you do not, and so you will maintain an attitude of detached stoicism. Ideally with a note of haughtiness, if you can manage it." Cassandra snorted, and Leliana laughed. "Yes, that will do nicely."

"I wasn't trying to—"

"I know. All the better. You will bow to each other—yes, even if he just insulted you—and then commence."

They began with the ringing clash of swords. 

Cassandra knew that it was the subject of much speculation and even some betting, who would be the victor in a fight between herself and Leliana. The answer, had they bothered to just ask her, was simple. If she had at least a few seconds' warning and was within twenty yards of Leliana, she would win. She was slower than Leliana and less agile, but stronger and habitually better-armored and with more reach, and her fighting style was at its best close up. But with no warning or from a distance, she would not stand a chance against Leliana; if Leliana wanted her dead she would be dead before she even knew the battle had commenced, from an arrow in the throat or a knife in the back or even, truly, from poison in her morning tea.

It was a silly question. And the same was true of all such questions. Who would win in a fight, Iron Bull or Cole? It depends. Vivienne or Sera? It depends.

And so she pressed forward, watching for an opening while seeking to weary Leliana’s sword-arm against the onslaught of her own stamina—watched for an opening and saw one, and—

"Aah, no," Leliana said, and Cassandra stopped. "Your instinct will be to finish the battle as swiftly as possible."

"Of course," Cassandra said, sword still poised. "There are a great many bad reasons to prolong combat, and precious few good ones."

"Perhaps. But here is one good one: if the battle is over _too_ quickly, sentiment may turn against you. At best you might be seen as a bully; at worst, as a cheater—and of course you will have deprived the crowd of the entertainment which they would feel is their due, which will sour them. While such might not be enough to overthrow the results of the duel in a legal sense, the scandal could easily dog Josephine for some time."

Cassandra grunted. "And so?"

"You do not need to fight all afternoon. But it would be best that you not defeat your opponent in the first thirty seconds. All right, again."

They began again, and it was actually more difficult to _not_ end the battle quickly; Cassandra had to fight years and years of training and practice and the very instincts of her own muscles. But she managed.

"Good," Leliana said after a while. "One more thing. It is customary for opponents in such duels to insult each other. As we established before, you will maintain a stoic and superior silence, as befits your status—and your inability to come up with stinging insults on the fly. But you must be prepared for your opponent to insult you."

"What do I care what he thinks of me?" Cassandra asked, circling, wondering if it was too early to end the fight.

"Yes, that is exactly the attitude you must maintain. But it is possible that he will say something that genuinely upsets you."

"More fool him."

"Indeed, you are unusually advantaged in that anger makes you fight more fiercely but not with notably less skill. Nevertheless. It is very likely that he will attempt first to insult your family and bloodline."

Cassandra snorted.

"...Quite. He may also say things about the Inquisition, or the Seekers." Leliana parried, drew back a little. "Or he may question whether you are good enough to be a partner for Josephine."

What flashed through Cassandra then was equal parts humiliation at that most private fear being drawn out— _how did she know?_ —and anger, and before she knew what she was doing she had knocked the sword from her hand, had the point of the practice saber at her throat.

Leliana, to her credit, did not flinch. "'More fool him,' indeed," she said. 

Cassandra realized belated, as she lowered the sword, that Leliana had not read her mind, that this was simply a likely stock insult for a lord to levy against his rival. She felt blood flush her cheeks; of course, now she had confirmed that fear.

Leliana put her hand on Cassandra's shoulder. "I do not know much of this lord," she said, "but I know that you are worth ten of him, and that you make Josephine very happy. Why else do you think I am helping you so with this?"

Cassandra felt that great wash of embarrassment recede just a little. "Thank you," she said, turning her face away, casting around for something to distract her from this hot feeling, shame mixed with gratitude. "And now the rapier?"

* * *

There were still arrangements that had to be made: Leliana's messages to send, travel plans to make, times to arrange—just as she had to travel from Skyhold, Lord Otranto had to travel from Antiva City—and, critically, the Inquisitor had to be brought into confidence. 

Technically, perhaps, she could have claimed some important personal errand; she knew she had the Inquisitor's trust sufficiently that she would not pry, and it was not even exactly a lie. But it was precisely because she had the Inquisitor's trust that she felt obliged to explain.

After she had limply and haltingly explained the situation, the Inquisitor's first question was, "Does Josephine know?"

"Ah... no. No, Leliana believes that it would put Josephine in an awkward position to know beforehand—personally but also politically. If she was seen to be encouraging a former lover" it hurt to describe herself as a former lover, but Cassandra pushed past it, went on "to duel her betrothed, it would reflect poorly on her." The Inquisitor hesitated, but then nodded in acknowledgement. Cassandra continued, "If the duel was to place a binding requirement on her, I would feel morally obligated to consult with her first. But as it is, it simply... frees her to make any choice she might wish."

"I see." And then, to Cassandra's surprise, the Inquisitor smiled. "Yes, then, go. I will make your excuses. I do not expect you to lose... and it has been so hard to see you and Josephine these past months."

"I do not expect to lose either," Cassandra said.

* * *

While a Seeker, by tradition, never had a fixed home, Cassandra had spent more time in Val Royeaux than any other city thanks to her duty to the Divine. It was in many ways a beautiful city, and Cassandra was not indifferent to beauty; certainly she preferred it to Nevarra City, which she had not set foot in since she was barely more than a child. 

But she also felt choked by it, sometimes, by the layers and layers of politics, like drowning in lace; by the eyes always on her—always on her ever since she was eighteen, Hero of Orlais and then Right Hand of the Divine and now part of the inner circle of the famous-infamous Inquisition.

She felt the eyes on her all the more today, although she wasn't sure if it was her imagination, and old training took over. She lifted her chin, straightened her back, walked without looking to either side, without gracing the gawkers with even a scrap of her attention. It was how she had walked all those many years as Divine Beatrice's bodyguard, as if the eyes meant nothing, less than nothing, as though her breastplate was armor against their curious stares as well.

"Nicely done," Dorian murmured from his place at her side. (He had very nearly begged to be her second—an Orlesian duel required a second, after all—and she had not been able to turn him down. Leliana could not do it, of course, and Dorian already knew; bringing him meant that she would not have to tell anyone else. Besides, Dorian was well-suited to this style of thing. Far more well-suited than _she_ was, truth be told.)

"I do have some practice at it," she replied.

"It shows. Looking as if you do not remotely care what they think of you is as effective as it is difficult to do."

"It isn't difficult for me. I genuinely do not care."

Dorian chuckled. "All the better, then."

When they arrived at the meeting, Lord Otranto was already there—or at least she assumed it was him, this well-groomed dark-haired fellow with a ridiculous ruffle at his throat. Dorian gave her one final squeeze on the shoulder before they moved through the crowd that surrounded Otranto; a crowd that melted away with murmurs of surprise.

Dorian waited on the edge of the circle, and Cassandra stepped out into the center. She felt, for a moment, the weight of dozens of eyes—and more all the time—settling on her. Then she shook it off as if shooing a fly, focusing only on the man before her. 

_Josephine. This is for Josephine._

"I am Lord Adorno Otranto of Antiva," the man said, giving a half-bow that even Cassandra could tell was deliberately weighted with irony. "Heir to Otranto and Veralis. Rightfully betrothed of Lady Montilyet."

Cassandra returned his bow, without irony. "I am Cassandra Pentaghast," she said, simply, no titles, no honors. And... she did not miss the way his eyes widened just a little, the way the murmurs passing through the crowd increased. Had Leliana obscured the true nature of her identity somehow? He must have had some idea who he was going to fight, but Leliana was clever; perhaps she had managed to mislead him, to make this moment a surprise.

 _Yes, you little fool, I am_ that _Cassandra Pentaghast. I am the Hero of Orlais and the Right Hand of the Divine. And it is entirely possible that I am not worthy of Josephine... but I_ know _that you are not._

To his credit, Otranto didn't flinch, but tossed her the sword, which she caught with ease. He said, "I am pleased that Lady Montilyet is not here, as exquisite as I hear her appearance to be." _Oh,_ Cassandra thought grimly, _more lovely than you could know, more lovely than you will ever know._ "It would be a poor showing to cut you down before my bride."

And difficult as it was to let that go by, she kept her expression impassive, turning her blade over in her hand as if bored. "I weary of preliminaries," she said, voice level. "We both know why we are here. Shall we begin?"

"As I am the aggrieved party, I do not see how you have grounds to make any demands," Otranto said. _The aggrieved party_ , Cassandra thought in sudden fury, for it was herself and Josephine who had paid already for this, paid and paid over two months apart, two months without a touch or a kiss or so much as a private conversation, two months of cold beds and lonely homecomings— 

But she bit her tongue, bided her time.

"But," Otranto continued, "I find I have little more to say to you. Let us begin."

Lord Otranto was a better swordsman than she had anticipated. He was still nothing like as good as the people who were Cassandra's usual sparring partners, but he was at least good enough that it wasn't too difficult for her to prolong the duel. 

For a time they fought in silence, thrust and parry, the ring of metal on metal and the flash of swords and finery in the strong Orlesian sunlight. The murmuring crowd had fallen silent, so that Cassandra could hear every movement of her boots and his on the flagstones, every hard breath.

It was Otranto who broke the silence. "I confess I had not known precisely whom I would be dueling, only that it would be a Pentaghast. You make quite a good showing, for someone from a family known for necromancers and treachery."

 _That's one_ , Cassandra thought, amused at how accurately Leliana had called it. And then: _You only know the half of it. Necromancers, treachery, and useless layabouts._ She said nothing, though, but parried his next strike with casual ease.

"Of course, perhaps it is not so far off the mark, for surely the Seekers have not proved their trustworthiness of late. It is said that your entire Order is little better than a group of traitors."

Still Cassandra said nothing, but she thought, _That's two. And here I brought a necromancer as my second. If you knew that you could no doubt make hay of it, but I am not going to make it so easy for you_.

She pressed her advantage for a bit, driving him back, marking time by the steady cadence of her own breath, then easing off.

To his credit, Otranto did not let it faze him, but brought out the third insult that Leliana had predicted: "And naturally, even the most trustworthy of Seekers could not be a suitable partner for one as accomplished—and, if rumor has it—as charming and beautiful as Lady Montilyet. It would do you a credit to realize that. Unless you expect to drag her about with you from fort to Circle on the back of your horse, Lady Seeker?"

 _Enough_ , Cassandra thought. Maybe it wasn't enough time—maybe Leliana would say that she should stay in longer—but as far as she was concerned, it was _enough._ She began in earnest, the silken sounds of edge on edge turning to the harder music of a fight as _she_ fought it—

—and then, crossing the rhythm of blade against blade, counterpoint to it, the crowd's murmuring began again, sharpened with surprise. She vaguely heard Dorian say, " _Oh_ ," and then—

—a beautifully familiar voice, but unfamiliar in its ferocity, saying, " _Stop!"_


	16. Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine is angry, Cassandra is dashing, and love is stronger than swords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While most of these chapters can be read in any order, this is the fourth in a set of four that should be read together. You should read the prior three chapters first (if you haven't already).

She hadn't been meant to find out, or at least not until after, and that was half of what made Josephine so angry.

She _wouldn't_ have found out, except that she was, firstly, still a woman in love, and secondly, not a fool. Because of the first thing, she noticed when Cassandra and Dorian were set to travel to Val Royeaux—without the Inquisitor—and wondered why, especially as the stated reason (while valid) certainly did not require two such important personages. One of Leliana's agents could have done it—or one of her own, for that matter.

For the second, well, when people abruptly stopped talking as soon as she approached... she was not so stupid that she didn't notice.

Dorian and Cassandra had only been gone a few hours when she came upon Blackwall and Bull talking. Bull was saying "—don't understand why you all make it so complicated. None of this shit has to be _this_ complicated."

"You can’t even appreciate romance when it involves both sex _and_ violence?” Blackwall sounded amused. “Especially after she's been mooning around like her heart's—" And then he caught sight of Josephine and stopped abruptly.

No, she was not a fool. And convincing the two of them to spill was not so difficult. Well, it might have been difficult with Bull, who was after all a trained spy... but it was not so difficult with Blackwall.

Blackwall had heard from Bull, who had heard from Dorian, who had heard from Cassandra herself that she was going to challenge Lord Otranto to a duel.

With live steel.

In the middle of Val Royeaux.

In eight days' time.

* * *

Those who thought of Josephine Montilyet as the soft one of the Inquisition might perhaps have learned a few things from her behavior later that day.

She had at least waited until they were in the semi-privacy of the War Room to bully the Inquisitor into giving her the next two weeks—time enough to get to Val Royeaux and back—off. It was her own personal style of bullying, which used tact as a wedge and guilt as a lever, but nevertheless. She was subtle, she was careful, she didn't shout, but she knew at the end that the Inquisitor left abashed at having permitted Cassandra to take matters so thoroughly into her own hands, and so gave her the requested leave, and a small contingent of guards to make the trip with her.

Leliana was much harder to embarrass; practically impossible. But on the other hand, in the privacy of her sitting room, Josephine didn't feel the need to be so subtle, either.

"How could you?" she said. "You permitted me to deal with the House of Repose in my own way—and that was my life at stake! Why encourage Cassandra to circumvent me in this?"

Leliana was quiet a moment, sipping her tea. (Even when she had invited Leliana to her rooms in order to be angry at her, Josephine provided tea. There was no cost in being civilized, after all.) Finally, she said, "You might say that I value hearts above lives, I suppose."

"That... doesn't make any sense."

"No. But it is still true."

Josephine huffed with exasperation.

Leliana put her cup down on its saucer with a clink. "I admit I am not sure why you are so against this. It is a simple solution to the problem, and one which causes no dishonor to anyone involved. Perhaps a very slight embarrassment to Otranto, but then, no one could truly blame him for losing a duel to the Hero of Orlais. If anything his reputation will benefit from having had the courage to face her at all."

"I had thought of it," Josephine said. "Of course I had. But—if Cassandra was injured or worse, fighting, fighting for _me_ , for my—" She could feel her voice twisting, as if the word was poison on her lips "—honor, I could never forgive myself."

"Josie, she faces more dangerous things than this lord before breakfast most days."

"I know," Josephine said. She turned the cup in her hands, around and around. "But not because of me."

* * *

So she set out, that very afternoon; Master Dennet was kind enough to ensure that her favorite horse, Mallow, was ready for a long ride, and she packed lightly, intending a short trip. She would go, she would intercept Cassandra (and Dorian—damn him for encouraging her, she would give him a piece of her mind too when she saw him), and they would return to Skyhold, safe and unharmed.

(The thought of Cassandra coming to harm always frightened her, for all that she knew that it was an omnipresent threat in Cassandra's vocation. The thought of Cassandra coming to harm for _her_ , on her behalf, made her blood stop in her veins.)

But things never seemed to work out as they should, and least of all when you most needed them to; there were delays on the road, and so she arrived not early but just in time to walk—to _run_ , improper though it was, with her guards trailing after her—through the streets until she found the meeting place, and heard the fierce ring of steel on steel.

She did not waste time with politeness or propriety but pushed her way through the crowd until she was standing behind Dorian in his ridiculous Tevinter tunic that bared one shoulder. She put a hand on that shoulder to shove him to one side and barely registered his "Oh" of shock and then—

Cassandra and Lord Otranto fought with unabashed ferocity, the sun glittering off Otranto's finery and yet Cassandra seemed the more eyecatching, the more noble for all that she wore her usual much-scratched breastplate. She was as a woman of legend, tall and powerful and savage as she struck and struck, her blade blazing in the light, her whole self upright and shining, and Josephine's breath seized for a moment before she found her fear and her anger again and shouted, "Stop!"

Both duelists froze, and she thought she would remember forever the way Cassandra turned, sword still raised and body poised as tensely as a cat about to pounce, and the way her eyes lit like the rising sun for just a moment when she saw Josephine. And for all that she was still angry, angry and frightened, she felt herself light, too, a warmth that she had missed for these long months apart.

She pushed herself forward, into the circle, all eyes on her, and for all that she was comfortable with politics and with public events, this was new: her place was usually off to one side, a supporting role rather than a star. But she could not spare more than a second’s thought for the attention as she strode across the circle.

“Lady Montilyet,” Lord Otranto said, and she did not even spare him a glance, all attention fixed on Cassandra, who was looking at her (now that the surprise had faded from her eyes) half with a depth of affection that Josephine could hardly even put a name to… and half with the attitude of a mouse who had caught the attention of a hawk.

“Josephine,” she said, her voice soft.

“How could you do this?” Josephine demanded, relief and fear and anger driving her on like a trade wind in a ship’s sails. “How could you go behind my back and do this? How could you put yourself in danger when the Inquisition needs you? When _I_ need you?”

Cassandra was still looking at her—staring at her as if there was nothing else in all the world but her, and Josephine knew that feeling because everything else had dropped away: the fine buildings all around, the crowd’s voice rising behind her, even the man to whom she was still, technically, betrothed—and she could see nothing and no one but Cassandra. Cassandra’s jaw worked as if she was trying to find the words, a struggle that was not easy for her.

Abruptly she felt the fresh force of her anger leave her, and so her voice was quieter when she asked, finally, "Why risk your life?" She could hear the ache of fear in her own voice, the fear that had dogged her, that Cassandra would be hurt, would be hurt or would _die_ , all because of her, because of her honor and because of her family's ambition and—perhaps worst—because of their love.

Cassandra lowered her blade, finally, as if she had just remembered it, and looked at her for a long time, her eyes so soft in a way entirely at odds with the sharpness of her posture. "Because you _are_ my life," she said, quiet. "I thought that you knew that.”

And then it was Josephine’s turn to be struck wordless, unable to find a response that in any way could do justice to _that_ , so simply and bluntly and honestly said and yet…. Her feet knew what to do when her voice did not, and it was only two steps before she flung herself into Cassandra’s arms. Cassandra tossed her sword away with a clang and caught her, strong hands around her waist and lifted her off her feet, spun her dizzy and kissed her: the first kiss in two months and more, fast and clumsy and so sweet. And then Josephine was back on her feet with her arms around Cassandra’s neck to pull her into another kiss, slower this time and more deliberate.

In the moment after, forehead to forehead, Cassandra’s hands still settled on her waist and Cassandra’s eyes closed, Josephine found words, finally, to say, “You, my lady… are everything. How could I risk that?”

Behind her, she heard the sound of a sword being sheathed, and pulled away to see Lord Otranto, hand on his hilt. (She realized that she had, in the past minute, forgotten him entirely. She could see from the wry look in his eyes that he knew it.)

“My apologies, my ladies,” he said. “I'm not fool enough to stand in the way of true affection. The Otrantos regretfully withdraw the terms of our betrothal.”

“Thank you,” Josephine said, and for all that she was still angry, her heart was light.

There was a smattering of applause from the watching crowd, and Josephine realized that news of this would move quick as lightning across Val Royeaux and outward. And because she was who she was, the thoughts occurred to her in rapid succession: she should send a message back to Leliana informing her of what had happened, so that the Inquisitor would not be caught flat-footed. And she would need to have a letter explaining matters on a ship for Antiva by tomorrow if she wished to present this in her own way, before her mother heard via gossips instead. She would have to write something effusively gracious to the Otrantos, reciprocal to the graciousness of their son.

But for now, here, in the afternoon light settling like gold over them both, there was nothing but Cassandra.

* * *

With the show over, the crowd dispersed quickly, leaving only Cassandra and Josephine, and Dorian, and Josephine’s two guards (whose eyes seemed fit to fall out of their heads—not that she could much blame them; this was hardly a usual journey for the ambassador).

“Well, all’s well that ends well, they say,” Dorian said with almost smug good cheer.

“Don’t take that tone with me. I am still quite cross with you,” Josephine said. “Honestly, aiding and abetting—encouraging—this foolish behavior….” It was hard to sound too angry, though, with Cassandra’s arm snug around her waist. (There was not much point in attempting to be discreet, now, not when the whole city would be talking about the Inquisition’s Seeker and its Ambassador within the hour.)

“And I would do it again, without the slightest hesitation,” Dorian said, thoroughly un-cowed. “Besides, Cassandra is surely the more at fault.”

“Cassandra and I will discuss this. Privately,” Josephine said, and she didn’t miss the way Cassandra looked somehow at once elated and guilty.

* * *

They would spend the night in Val Royeaux; they would begin the return journey to Skyhold in the morning. And now that they _could_ , without causing a scandal, she and Cassandra would share the room. Although it was still only late-afternoon, they retired to that room together immediately (and never mind the smirkingly knowing looks from Dorian; she would deal with him later).

As soon as the door was shut, Josephine said, “I should still be angry with you, for risking yourself, and for going behind my back.”

Cassandra sighed and passed a hand over her brow. “I’m sorry. I _am_ sorry, to have worried you. But I could not bear to think of you compelled against your will. I missed you so much more than I could say, but I could not bear to see you forced into something. I do not think… I have been in entirely my right mind the past weeks, but….” She grimaced. “I am sorry that I upset you, but I find that it is difficult for me to be too sorry, when things have resolved themselves… as they have.” And then, rawly: “I missed you _so_ much.”

Josephine found that it was difficult for her to hold on to her anger, and, more, that she did not especially want to try. “I have missed you too. Every day. Every hour. So I am sorry too, that my solution took so long—that you felt you had to do this.” She slid her fingertips up Cassandra’s shoulders, curled her hands over the tops and felt Cassandra’s arms settle around her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Leliana thought it would put you in a politically difficult position, if you knew.”

“Yes,” Josephine said. She narrowed her eyes a little. “But also, you thought I would try to stop you.”

Cassandra hesitated, then nodded. Josephine sighed. “Enough of this. In the future… I will not try to handle everything on my own. And you will not go behind my back. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Cassandra said, and Josephine rose up on her toes to kiss her, a kiss that went on for quite some time in her delight at being _able_ to kiss Cassandra again, arms around her and lips warm against her own.

After a little while, when finally they had to stop for breath, Josephine said, “I must confess that as much as I was frightened for you… oh, you were such a sight, so beautiful and so dashing. Everyone else in the square looked like a candle next to the sun.”

Cassandra gave a little shake of her head. “You flatter me.”

“It’s true, every word. I was afraid and I was angry and still you took my breath away. Like something out of an old legend.” And before Cassandra could protest again, Josephine rose up and tugged her down for another kiss, then gave her a gentle push backwards, toward the bed. “Now let me show you how much I missed you.”

They went slowly, both of them; two months' worth of enforced separation still vivid. Josephine noticed but did not comment on the way Cassandra's fingers shook as they unlaced the bodice of her riding habit, shook in a way that they had never done while holding a sword. She felt shaky, too, fear and relief and longing all coming untangled at once, and it felt as though only with her hands on Cassandra's skin could she ground herself, remind herself that all that was over, that this was real.

Finally bare skin to bare skin, Josephine's hair fell around them both like a cloak. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed again—slow, unhurried. Cassandra's hands were reverent as they touched her, curving over her hip, settling against her waist, stroking her breasts, and though Cassandra was never very vocal in bed she made soft breathless noises against Josephine's lips. Josephine's touch was hungrier, urgent with the last residual fear, with the need to reassure herself that Cassandra had not come to harm for her. Her hands found the smooth muscles of her back, the subtle flexing power of her biceps, her golden skin so warm and alive, each silvered scar beautifully familiar. Her mind thrummed with the words that she would have said aloud if her mouth had not been otherwise occupied, that she would say later: _I missed you so much I ached in my bones, my life has never been so cold and empty as it was without you, Cassandra—_

For all her frustrated wanting, for all the longing she saw in Cassandra's eyes, they were not fast, nor urgent. She felt fragile in Cassandra's hands, and she could see that same fragility in the careful way Cassandra touched her—so instead they were gentle with each other, rediscovering. Afterwards, Cassandra trembled in her arms with more than just the aftershocks of orgasm, and she held her, held her tight, not to let her go, not ever again.

"Tell me we won't do all that again," Cassandra said into her shoulder, after a few moments. "I am not sure I can handle finding out about another betrothal of yours."

"No," Josephine said. "No. I will write my parents tomorrow. I will need to find some solution, but I can do that." She kissed Cassandra's shoulder, the side of her neck. "I know my heart cannot bear going through that again."

Cassandra nodded and sighed, relaxing as Josephine stroked her back. "I know—that you are expected to make a, a good match, and I—"

"Shh. I could not possibly make a better match than you." She tilted Cassandra's chin up and kissed her, slow and sweet. Then, feeling suddenly, oddly shy, for all that they were naked and entwined, she said, “You didn’t… really mean that.” She paused, stroking Cassandra’s mussed hair back behind her ear. “What you said in the square?” She couldn’t quite bring herself to repeat it, but the words, _you are my life_ , felt as if they had been written in fire across the inside of her head.

Fortunately, Cassandra seemed to know what she meant. “Not... literally,” she said. “I have had my duty and my faith since long before I met you, and I still have those. But…” She slipped her fingers around Josephine’s restless hand, drew it down and kissed her palm. “You are the first person who has made me feel as though I could have more to my life than just duty and faith, in a long, long time. It is something I have wanted for a very long time, but until you it did not occur to me that I could have it.” She could feel Cassandra smile against her wrist. “You have made me selfish, I suppose.”

“Not selfish,” Josephine said. She could feel tears burn at the inside corners of her eyes, and blinked them back. “It’s not selfish.”

“It is, a little. But I find that I don’t mind being selfish, this once.”

Josephine nuzzled against her, quiet for a little while; she wasn't sure how long, except that the light coming through the room's sheer windows shifted, the shadows lengthening. Finally, she said, "Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Cassandra said, after a pause. "But I don't want to get out of bed. So, selfish and lazy both."

Josephine kissed her and sat up, winding her hair into a semi-appropriate knot at the back of her head. "I was planning to send down for food. After all..." She smiled. "After such a display as that _,_ it would almost be more of a scandal if we _didn't_ spend the entire day in bed."

* * *

Of course, the news was all over Skyhold by the time they returned, as Josephine had known it would be.

"So, after all that, which one of you is taking whose name?" Bull was saying, in the tavern, to an increasingly-red-cheeked Cassandra. "That is how you Andrastians do things, right?" Cassandra looked somewhere between amused, flattered, and murderous, an odd combination of expressions.

"Everyone knows Cassandra hates her name," Dorian said. "So it seems likely that she'd make the change. Cassandra Montilyet, has a rather nice ring to it."

"Dorian," Cassandra said warningly.

"I figure she'll just tack it on along with all the others," Sera drawled. "Cassandra Allegra whatever whatever Portia something something Montilyet Pentaghast."

"Actually," Josephine said serenely as she took a seat next to Cassandra, "in Antiva it is very common for both parties to keep the names of their own houses. There is some politicking as to what names the children will receive, admittedly."

 _That_ prompted a whole new avenue of teasing speculation, but Cassandra looked at her with such amusement and love in her expression that Josephine could tell she didn't really mind. She found Cassandra's hand beneath the table and squeezed it. Even with the question of Lord Otranto settled, marriage between them could never be a simple thing. But for now, this, here, was enough.


	17. Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine considers, Cassandra observes, and first impressions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone--and now I have, alas, lost track of who--asked me a while back about Josephine and Cassandra's first impressions of each other. This is that story, which is also the chronologically earliest thus far (and I suspect will be the chronologically earliest of the thirty unless a later prompt completely surprises me). 
> 
> It's set before the Conclave; I admit that I have no idea precisely when or where, though.

The first time Josephine met Cassandra, she was arguing. With Leliana, who, admittedly, was capable of trying the patience of a very saint when she was in the mood, much as Josephine loved her. But Cassandra was certainly giving as good as she got, to use a coarse but useful Fereldan expression.

She did not, at the time, know who Cassandra was, only that a tall (very tall—taller than most men, even) woman was striding alongside Leliana's familiar form, speaking and gesturing impatiently. Nevarran accent; bearing of unconscious confidence and command; warrior's garb. A real warrior, too, not a noble playing at soldiery—she could tell by the scratches and dents on her armor, the weight of the sword hanging at her hip.

"—send a small contingent of soldiers," the woman was saying. "We need to make sure this is done properly."

"Two of my agents could do the same much more quickly and quietly," Leliana replied. "Without fuss. Surely that would be the most 'proper' of all, for it to not even become an issue."

The woman made a noise in the back of her throat, inelegant but expressive. "Yes, and if they are ambushed? A groups of soldiers, even a small group if well-equipped, would have a much better chance—"

"The difference is that my agents will not _get_ caught," Leliana said, and the woman raised a glove hand in a brief but expressive gesture of dismissal. Leliana opened her mouth as if to reply again, and then her gaze fell to Josephine, waiting patiently by the door. "Ah, Josie, your timing is superb. I must introduce you. This is Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine and veteran member of the Seekers of Truth."

 _Ahhh_ , that explained the Nevarran accent, the sure posture. She had of course heard of Cassandra Pentaghast; the woman was famous across Orlais, for all that she had so assiduously shunned the spotlight that even in her role as ambassador Josephine had never met her. She smiled, turning her attention from Leliana to Lady Pentaghast, and—

—for a moment, just a split second, she was stunned. Because while it would have been easy to be distracted by the imposing height, the scratched armor, the vivid scar, the stern expression... Cassandra Pentaghast had the most _arresting_ eyes she had ever seen, a very dark honey-hazel that glinted almost red in the light from the lamps.

But she was not a practiced politician for nothing; she recovered herself in less than an eyeblink, offering her hand. "Josephine Montilyet," she said.

Lady Pentaghast took her hand. Her grip was firm but, Josephine was pleased to note, not crushingly so. (In her experience, it was those with more machismo than sense who felt the need to smash your fingers; the most skilled had more control than that.) "A pleasure," she said, and her stern expression shifted into a smile—a very slight smile, admittedly, but still it lit those hazel eyes and softened her expression just a bit.

 _Careful, Josephine_ , she thought, even as she smiled back. "Likewise."

"I believe I already mentioned—Josephine will be our diplomat and ambassador. She had enormous experience with such things, and I can attest that her integrity is beyond question."

"I would expect no less," Lady Pentaghast said. "And I am pleased that there is someone else here to deal with the more political elements of our cause."

She said the word 'political' as if what she really meant to say was 'distasteful' or possibly 'covered in slugs.' Leliana laughed. "Josie, I should warn you that Lady Pentaghast has little patience for niceties."

"I suspect they are not as much required on the field of battle," Josephine said with a smile in return. "Although I must admit that I would have expected a Pentaghast to have some ease of familiarity with politics."

The faint smile vanished from Lady Pentaghast's face with the same crashing heavy weight as snow sliding off an over-laden tree branch, and Josephine noted her own misstep without self-recrimination, but filed it away for future reference. Lady Pentaghast said, "I do not have much to do with my family, or in fact with Nevarra."

"Cassandra has been serving the Chantry as a warrior since she was a teenager," Leliana said, smoothly turning the subject, "which is, I suspect, why she believes we should send soldiers to Val Noiret, but I think we would be better served to send agents. Perhaps you could help us resolve this?"

"Of course," Josephine said, admiring the deftness with which Leliana had changed the subject. (Leliana could and would leave you hanging awkwardly in a conversation if that suited her purposes... so this must mean that she wished Josephine and Lady Pentaghast to have a friendly working relationship. Which made good sense.)

"Come, let us discuss," Leliana said, gesturing to the library. 

(Josephine noticed the graceful ease with which Lady Pentaghast turned, stepped to one side, and opened the heavy library door—heavy enough that Josephine had needed to heave it open with a most unladylike grunt earlier in the day. That, too, she filed away for future consideration.)

* * *

"So," Leliana said, after Josephine had taken her leave. "What do you think?"

"Of Lady Montilyet?"

"No, of the color of the curtains. _Yes,_ of Josephine, what did you think I meant?" Leliana said, her voice affectionate even through her impatience.

"Oh," Cassandra said. "I simply... did not expect to be asked that. I am hardly in a position to critique a diplomat, after all."

"I wasn't asking you to _critique_ her," Leliana said, her voice furry with amusement.

What _did_ Cassandra think of Lady Montilyet? At first glance what you saw was a no-doubt polished facade: a pretty face, an impeccably-groomed mien, well-dressed, courteous, charming. Everything Cassandra had worked all her life _not to be—_ and not so different from any number of courtiers who had passed through Cassandra's life without leaving their mark on her memory except as an indistinct mass. But within five minutes of discussing the Val Noiret situation, she had caught a glimpse of a shrewd mind and a fierce intellect, and that _did_ stand out where a fair face did not. 

And there was something else, something that Cassandra had noticed immediately for all the short time they'd spent together, something Cassandra suspected could not be feigned or taught. When Lady Montilyet smiled, it made you want to smile; when she laughed, it was an invitation to laugh with her. It was appealing, in the most literal sense: it felt like an appeal, an overture to alliance, even for an alliance as ephemeral and brief as a shared moment of mirth. It was, she supposed, charisma—but not of the sort that had always left her so suspicious of charisma as a tool or a concept.

It had been easy to relax in her presence, which was in itself somewhat alarming; Cassandra had spent her life learning to observe, to keep a distance, to consider with skepticism if not outright suspicion, to keep her guard up. It was what being a Seeker meant. But she supposed that if she was going to relax in anyone's presence, someone that Leliana trusted—Leliana, who never trusted anyone—was not a bad person to pick.

"I think," she said slowly, "that she must be very good at her job." And then, with a short laugh, she added, "She got _us_ to agree, for once, didn't she?"

"Oh come now, that's hardly such an impossible occurrence," Leliana said, but she was smiling. "But yes, she is exceptionally good at her job. Although don't let the sweet face fool you—she has quite the wicked sense of humor when she's of a mind, and she's more adventurous than you might think."

"You know her well, then?"

"We have been friends for some time." Leliana tapped a fingertip on the tabletop, smiling a little to herself. "And a friend who will help you smuggle a nug into the bed of a duchess is more precious even than sapphires."

"You and those nugs," Cassandra said with a snort, and when Leliana opened her mouth she lifted a hand. "No, I find that I do not want to know."

"It is a good story," Leliana said. "But... probably not as good as whatever you are imagining now, admittedly. No harm came to the nug, of course, I wouldn't allow it. The same is not entirely true of the duchess."

"And this is the story you decide to allude to, when introducing me to our new diplomat?"

Leliana's eyes crinkled. "It shows that she is not only polished and charming and gracious but also possessed of wit, daring, and loyalty. Not a bad set of traits, I think."

"No," Cassandra said. "I cannot argue with that."


	18. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Josephine is busy, Cassandra is distracting, and there are pleasant ways to pass a summer's evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not forgotten this story! Nor had I given up on it. Instead, I had fully three separate false starts for this chapter, before I flung my hands up and decided to go with shameless fluffy smut and Cassandra-appreciation.

Summer in Skyhold was not warm by Josephine's standards. She had grown up in Antiva City; it never grew cold enough, there, that the flowers stopped blooming. She had seen her first real frost only when she had traveled to Orlais. (She had also been asked thoroughly insulting questions, by bards and dandies in Val Royeaux, about whether it was truly always _hot_ and _wet_ in Antiva City, always asked with that particular lift of the eyebrow. It was not the innuendo that bothered her, but the crudeness of it. If one was to make a scandalous overture, one ought to take the time to craft it properly.) She had adapted to the chill of an Orlesian winter—aided somewhat by the elaborate heaviness of the gowns and cloaks worn there, heavier than the fashion in Antiva—but Skyhold was something else again, and even a fur blanket for her lap and a hot brick under her desk wasn't quite enough to make the winters pleasant.

But summer in Skyhold, though not warm per se, was pleasant enough in terms of the weather, with clear skies the impeccable clear blue of tourmaline and warm sunlight. And there were other things pleasant about it, too.

Josephine's daily schedule was full—quite full, in fact, with one tedious meeting after another. But one could occasionally snatch small breaks from even the fullest schedule, and indeed, it was necessary lest you lose your patience with the last visitor of the day. Besides, her mother had taught her that a lady should walk in the fresh air every day, to preserve the clarity of her skin, the brightness of her eyes, and the fire of her digestion.

Or, at least, that was her excuse for taking a walk along the walls at midmorning, when the courtyard was bathed in sunlight and the day was just beginning to get truly warm.

Cassandra's daily training followed a very specific pattern. She woke at dawn and broke her fast with a small meal before beginning her prayers and meditation. Then she went to the training yard, where she stretched and performed various exercises to warm her muscles. After that, she spent time practicing her form with the training dummies. At midmorning she went through a specific set of poses and exercises—a Seeker regime, but one that Cassandra was quite willing to teach to others, although few were willing to follow its punishing strictness on a daily basis as she was. (Cassandra followed the practice religiously—literally; it held some meditative quality for her not unlike prayer.) Then, if she had no pressing meetings, she would exercise her horse until lunchtime. In the afternoon, she usually had some meetings she could not avoid, but interspersed them with a less rigid set of activities: studying in the library, working her horse more, sparring with other members of the Inquisition, cleaning and repairing her gear, or in meditation at the chapel. For all that she was an active woman and disinclined to keep still, it was generally not difficult to find Cassandra, because she also loved order.

So that was why Josephine had no difficulty finding her, this summer morning.

And sure enough, there was Cassandra in the courtyard far below, running through the poses and exercises of the Seekers. They were designed, Cassandra had explained once, to help you connect body to mind, and mind to spirit, to make you a whole person in the sight of the Maker, with all of the elements of your self in harmony. They were also, as far as Josephine could tell, designed to test your balance and strength to the utmost. She had seen young recruits, hoping to impress the Hero of Orlais, join her at her practice—and had seen them give up in defeat, pouring with sweat. 

Even Cassandra was evidently overwarmed by the exercises on this mild morning, because she paused midway and unlaced her heavy gambeson, draping it carefully over the bench before returning to her work. 

The shirt underneath was the farthest thing from immodest. It was perfectly proper linen, with capped sleeves and a high neckline; you would see far more scandalous attire in even the more respectable chocolate-houses of Orlais. And yet... 

Josephine leaned forward, resting her forearms on the sun-warmed stone of the wall. Far below, Cassandra glided into a pose that made every muscle stand out in her arms: not just her muscle-rounded shoulders or the glorious swell of her biceps but the finer muscles in her forearms and wrists, corded with strength and yet sleek, the unhurried strength of a cat. After a little while, Cassandra shifted, into another posture that relaxed her forearms but tightened her triceps and the wonderful muscles of her back and shoulderblades, visible where sweat had made her linen shirt cling to her skin.

Josephine was aware of Leliana gliding up beside her. It wasn't unusual for Leliana to find her at this time of day, although, admittedly, not usually _here_. Leliana stopped next to her, leaning on the wall as well.

Below, Cassandra moved again, into an exercise designed to work the muscles of her thighs, one knee bent and the other leg extended, flexing her endless, endless legs. Josephine bit her lower lip.

“Josie,” Leliana said, after a little while. “You’re staring.”

“I am the eldest daughter of House Montilyet and I have fifteen years of court experience. I am trained in the specific rules of etiquette of every nation south of the Nocen Sea. I do not _stare_.” Josephine didn’t take her eyes off Cassandra as she shifted her weight, bending the other knee and sliding the other leg out what looked like forever.

“Oh? Then what exactly do you call that, what you’re doing right now?”

Josephine paused, felt her lip curl up at one corner. “Art appreciation,” she breathed.

Leliana elbowed her in the ribs. "I should have brought you your opera glasses, then?"

"Tragically," Josephine said, "I did not think to bring my opera glasses with me when I joined the Inquisition. Obviously I did not think ahead sufficiently."

"Dear Josie," Leliana said with a laugh. Then she said, "Technically, this is a meditation for her, you know. A way of dedicating her body to a higher cause."

That _did_ drag Josephine's gaze away from Cassandra. "Do you think she would be offended, that I am watching?"

"No, not remotely. I think she would turn a very charming shade of strawberry and stammer about it, but secretly be flattered." Leliana turned around, resting her back against the wall. "She does know that you watch her."

"She is well worth watching."

"Well, I can't argue with _that._ "

* * *

Josephine was busy again, then, all through the rest of the morning, during a long and tedious lunch meeting, and into the afternoon, when Lady Montquerelle asked for—insisted on, really—a personal tour of Skyhold.

They often wanted this, her visitors. _Most_ could be pawned off with a quick tour of the most appropriate areas: the great hall, of course, the banquet rooms, the painted rotunda and the library (Dorian was actually a great help there; he offered just enough inappropriateness to mildly scandalize—the Inquisition's Tevinter mage!—while remaining handsome and charming, and without ever being _truly_ inappropriate; few of her guests had the fortitude to bear up to a meeting with, say, Sera), the gardens and the chapel, the glorious view from the north wall if the weather permitted, and perhaps a duck into the armory or the tavern if they were feeling daring. 

But Lady Montquerelle was not satisfied with this quick tour. She insisted on being shown everywhere and everything. Josephine was not sure whether this was a power play, in making the Inquisition's diplomat play personal tour guide for most of an afternoon... or simply a sign of Lady Montquerelle's famous eccentricity. But she made the quick calculation that it was worth the extra hour of her time to secure Montquerelle's favor, given her influence in Orlais and, not to be crass about it, her considerable fortune.

(In honesty, it was impressive that Lady Montquerelle _could_ go over Skyhold from front to back and top to bottom, given her age, but she seemed to be the type of old woman who was nothing but skin and bones powered by a belly full of fire. One of Josephine's great-aunts had been that way.)

So she led Lady Montquerelle from wine cellar (where she cackled with glee over the collection of Grey Warden bottles) to Lady Vivienne's loft (where Lady Vivienne—who of course knew Lady Montquerelle well—greeted her warmly and offered her port, which she accepted with alacrity), from armory to tavern, from infirmary to storage rooms. And then, finally, to the training yard, where Cassandra and the Inquisitor were sparring.

Any given pair of members of the Inquisitor’s inner circle were enjoyable to watch spar (save for Josephine herself, although she supposed there might be some enjoyment value in determining exactly how to convince each of them to voluntarily lay down their weapons most quickly), but Cassandra and the Inquisitor were especially spectacular. 

Cassandra was sparring in her preferred way: with practice sword and shield, blunted and lighter-weight to prevent serious damage, but with her full strength. The Inquisitor gave as good as she got, and together they were something like a particularly brutal dance. Cassandra's skin was flushed with exertion, sweat in her hair and trickling down her neck from the exercise and the warmth of the day, and the sight flashed an image into Josephine's mind of Cassandra, equally flushed and sweaty but for very different reasons....

"Quite appealing, eh?" Lady Montquerelle gave her the kind of wicked smile that only very elderly ladies with a very large fortune could get away with.

"Ah... which one?"

"Both of them. You have certainly put together an attractive Inquisition, Lady Montilyet."

"That... was not our first priority, I must say."

"Well, then it's quite a nice side effect!"

* * *

There was not a formal evening meal every night, and even when there was, quite often Cassandra and the Inquisitor were not in attendance. But this night, with the entire Inquisition together, there was one: and so it was not a great surprise when the Inquisitor cornered Josephine with wide eyes.

"The Du Lachionelles trapped me," she said, "for a _full hour_ , to talk about _upholstery_."

Josephine sighed on the inside, smiled on the outside. "I will ensure that they are occupied during the meal."

And so that was how she ended up between two of the most famously boring bores in all of Orlais, and possibly all of Thedas. (Lady Montquerelle, appropriately, had attached herself to Cullen, and appeared to be doing her best to make him blush. Josephine saluted him with a wineglass. He gave her a pained look.)

Josephine was reasonably adept at dealing with the conversations of the dull. One resigned oneself to not having an interesting meal, planned a convenient excuse for leaving (with apologies) as soon as the meal was over, and simply gritted one's teeth and put on a facade of engaged interest for the duration. (She had once explained this to Cassandra, who had looked at her in abject horror and announced that she would rather endure dragonfire.)

Lord Du Lachionelle was droning on in a remarkably uninflected voice about the breeding of his dogs. (Dogs could be an interesting topic, but not the way he was discussing it.) Josephine kept her expression pleasantly interested while in her head she made up a list of supplies for the next requisition—she could come up with intelligent questions with only half an ear—and then Cassandra entered and stole all of her attention for a second.

Cassandra was dressed in something new. Her usual formal tunic was black velvet with the Inquisition's livery on it, sleek and subtly imposing. (It was, in fact, the tunic she wore under ceremonial armor, when she had occasion to wear ceremonial rather than practical armor.) But today she was wearing something in very dark blue silk. No: indigo, quite the fashion in Orlais now. The silk was certainly more appropriate to the summer weather than her usual leather and wool and velvet.

It also clung to her skin _much_ more intimately. As Cassandra strode up to the head of the table, it shimmered over her back and arms. As she bowed briefly to the Inquisitor while making her apologies for her tardiness, it slid enticingly over her shoulders and biceps. As she straightened again and went to her place at the end of the table, it shifted over her breasts.

Cassandra would not have thought to purchase such a thing. Josephine detected Leliana's hand in this. She wasn't sure whether to silently curse her or bless her.

She realized that she had not even so much as heard the last few sentences Lord Du Lachionelle had said, and smoothly transitioned her attention back to him. Thank the Maker, he was still droning on, having not apparently even noticed her slipped attention.

But she spent the rest of the evening acutely aware of Cassandra, at the end of the table, and tried very hard not to think about running her hands over Cassandra's stomach, feeling the muscles of that flat belly, the heat of her skin through the cool smoothness of silk....

* * *

It was many hours later before Josephine was, finally, free to return to her quarters.

When she did, Cassandra was already there. She had kicked off her boots and had traded the silk tunic from dinner for a much more casual linen shirt, the laces loose at her throat. Cassandra lay on the bed, reading a book, one leg bent with her foot flat on the bed, her hair a little mussed as if she hadn't remembered to smooth it down when she'd changed her shirt, and all of a sudden all the frustrated and pent-up desire of the day crackled into Josephine's blood, so intensely that she could almost hear it, a roar in her ears.

Cassandra looked up and smiled, her lovely soft smile. She marked her place in the book and put it aside. "Good evening, love."

"Good evening," Josephine said, feeling as tense as a cat ready to pounce.

Cassandra stretched, arching her back and flexing her arms above her head and extending miles and miles of leg, and suddenly it was more than Josephine could be expected to stand. She was on the bed in a flash, straddling Cassandra's hips and pinning her hands to the bed. It was a grip that Cassandra could have broken easily, and they both knew it, but Cassandra didn't, instead laying gently under Josephine's hands.

She looked up at Josephine, instead, lips a little parted and eyes wide with surprise. 

"You," Josephine said, leaning close, "have been tormenting me all day." She let go of Cassandra's hands and trailed her fingertips over her exposed wrists. To her delight, Cassandra shivered, eyelashes flickering.

"I have barely been in the same _room_ with you all day—" Cassandra said.

Josephine interrupted her with a kiss, long and slow, tracing her tongue over Cassandra's lower lip until Cassandra opened to her with a gasp: and then catching it lightly between her teeth before pulling away. Now Cassandra's eyes were no longer wide but heavy, dark, and she licked her lower lip in a way that further stoked the fire in Josephine's belly. Josephine said, "I saw you at training, when you took off your gambeson. I watched you with the Inquisitor, working up a sweat. And at dinner, in that new tunic—"

"Leliana's idea, for the warmer months," Cassandra said breathlessly. "It's silk."

"I _know_ ," Josephine said—growled, really. "I spent the entire evening attempting to make polite conversation with the Du Lachionelles, not an easy task at the best of times, while imagining putting my hands on every inch of you, feeling smooth silk and your body hot underneath...."

"Well," Cassandra said, eyes heavy-lidded as she relaxed back against the pillows, her chin tilting up to reveal the long line of her throat, "I am here. What will you do with me now?"

(It was a funny thing, because Cassandra was a powerful woman, indomitable. She did not submit. And yet here, where she felt safe and private and loved—where she _was_ safe and private and loved—she melted like one of her novels' maidens, permitted herself to be soft, gave herself over to Josephine's hands. It was a profound act of trust, and one that Josephine prayed she would always be worthy of.)

"I thought I might take off the rest of your clothes," she said, toying with the loose cloth at Cassandra's wrists, "put my hands all over you, and then ravish you." She leaned in again, this time to kiss the pulse point just behind the angle of Cassandra's jaw, and felt as much as heard the noise Cassandra made—too small to be a moan, but soft, throaty. 

"Yes," Cassandra whispered, and Josephine smiled against the side of her neck.

Josephine slid her hands down, and it wasn't quite the same as she'd imagined with the silk but it was close enough: the smooth fabric, the warmth of skin tangible beneath. Her fingertips worked under the shirt's bottom hem, sliding up now over skin with nothing between them. 

Cassandra's stomach was a wonder, flat and well-muscled. There was the seam of a scar here, smooth under her fingertips—an unlucky strike from a bandit many years before. With her hands flat on Cassandra's stomach, Josephine could feel as well as hear her breaths, growing faster and deeper. She glanced up, and oh, there, the sight of Cassandra looking back at her with her lip caught between her teeth, enough to take her breath away all by itself.

She slid the shirt up higher, and Cassandra sat up to help her pull it off entirely. Cassandra hadn't put her breastband back on after she'd changed her shirt, apparently, because her breasts were bare under the linen. Bare, and beautiful; Cassandra's usual attire obscured them but they were perfect, shapely, with dark nipples that hardened now as Josephine cupped them, kissing Cassandra's throat. She pressed her lips down, over Cassandra's breastbone, and then over the slope of her breast, lingering, enjoying the silk of her areola, the hardening of her nipple beneath the tip of her tongue. Cassandra made another little sound as Josephine teased and then sucked. Beneath Josephine's legs where she still straddled Cassandra's waist, Cassandra arched and opened her legs a little—a silent invitation.

Josephine didn't take it, though. Not yet. Instead her lips traveled up to Cassandra's collarbone, pausing to kiss the long puckered scar there where it had once been broken, and then up to her shoulder. Her fingertips ran down the inside of Cassandra's arm—the sensitive skin on the inner curve, its softness a contrast to the powerful muscles that lay beneath—as she kissed the join between Cassandra's shoulder and her throat, letting her teeth graze the skin there. Cassandra shuddered, helpless in this moment, and Josephine _thrilled_. She cupped Cassandra's face between her hands and kissed her, urgently now, pressing her tongue between Cassandra's parted lips, tasting her, teasing her until Cassandra moaned against her mouth and Josephine could feel her ragged gasp.

She broke away, then, pausing to check Cassandra's expression; but it was still soft, a little glazed and panting with desire. Josephine smiled and Cassandra smiled back, so openly and so beautifully that it nearly hurt to see it.

Cassandra reached up and tugged at Josephine's sleeve. "I'd like to see you, too," she said.

"Yes," Josephine said. She shifted off Cassandra's lap—Cassandra made a little protesting noise—and then turned to present her back. "Unlace me?"

She loved Cassandra's hands as well as she loved any other part of her, and she enjoyed their deftness as Cassandra unlaced her, long fingers brushing the skin at the nape of her neck. In celebration of the summer warmth, she had left off the heavy layers of Orlesian finery in favor of something more in the style of her homeland, and so there was more skin at her throat and the tops of her shoulders visible. Once she had loosed her laces, Cassandra slid her fingers along that exposed skin, beneath the neckline of her dress to ease it down where it pooled around Josephine's hips.

She could feel the tremor in Cassandra's hands as she unlaced Josephine's corselet, and then Josephine squirmed up and out of both dress and underwear, leaving them to slither to the floor, forgotten, as she returned to straddling Cassandra's waist. The leather of Cassandra's trousers caught on the skin of Josephine's inner thighs and made her shiver.

Settled once again atop Cassandra, Josephine ducked her head and pressed a kiss over her heart, and then lower, to the bottom of her ribcage where a scar slashed upward—perilously near her heart, but Josephine wouldn't think of that now—and then lower still, to her stomach with its muscles, taut now and defined as Cassandra shivered with deep breaths. Now, finally, she unbuckled Cassandra's belt and slid her trousers down, those magnificently tight trousers, and beneath them—the golden curve of her hip, her endless legs, and no smalls at all.

Cassandra was aroused already, her thighs slick and her scent perfuming the air, but Josephine—for all that she, too, was aroused, almost to the point of dizziness—avoided the center of her, instead kissing the jut of her hipbone, stroking her fingertips along her hip. Cassandra's breath came even harder, a tiny sound on the exhale, nearly a moan. Her legs fell open wider, needy and trusting, and when Josephine glanced up again she saw Cassandra's gaze fixed on her, and that Cassandra had her arms over her head to grip the headboard. The position made the muscles in her biceps bunch, and Josephine was filled with a desire to crawl back up, to _bite_ those taut muscles.

But she had not appreciated Cassandra's legs as the deserved to be appreciated, and so she sat back on her heels between Cassandra's spread knees and lifted one of her legs until she could cup her heel and kiss the inside of her ankle. Cassandra finally, finally moaned in earnest, head back and trembling. Josephine kissed slowly, softly up her calf, nibbled lightly at the back of Cassandra's knee and then up her thighs—wet now with sweat and more—until she was settled between them, those powerful muscles and yet open and shaking, all for her.

"Please," Cassandra said.

"Always," Josephine replied, and looked up to meet her eyes as she lowered her mouth.

Oh, she was _wet_. Josephine's tongue glided over her, long and slow, and above her Cassandra made a long shuddery sound. Her mouth was open, her eyes utterly dark, her hands on the headboard white-knuckled. Josephine reached up trailing a hand along the underside of Cassandra's arm—Cassandra shook just at that light touch—and caught her elbow, bringing her hand down to place it on Josephine's head.

(Cassandra was always afraid to do that, afraid that she would push too hard, or pull her hair by accident. But Josephine loved it, loved to feel Cassandra's desperation in her grip, and it was worth a little pulled hair.)

Josephine settled in, teasing now, little brushes of her tongue around the edges and then—when the noises Cassandra made began to shift from a pleased kind of frustrated to a less pleased kind—swirled back up to the apex, where Cassandra was swollen with want, and when she pressed her tongue there firmly Cassandra's moan increased in pitch until it was almost a song before breaking off into gasps. Her fingers flexed in Josephine's hair.

She was close, she was close—and Josephine could have drawn it out, but she found that she didn't want to. She wanted to see Cassandra sinking against the sheets utterly satisfied, pleasured to the point of total contentment, as she deserved.

So she kept on, pressing a finger inside Cassandra as her tongue worked, feeling the soft tension and deep heat of her body, and it didn't take long—Cassandra arched up, made a rough noise that was very nearly a scream, and shook against her, pulsing wet against her mouth.

Josephine kissed Cassandra lightly, softly, intimately, through the aftershocks, as Cassandra melted back against the bed. She looked up again, pressing a kiss to the top of Cassandra's thigh as she did so. Cassandra's eyes were shut, her cheeks glowing with pleasure, her breasts rising and falling as her breaths evened out. She had looked like a champion in the training hall, like a warrior in the sparring ring, like a queen in the banquet hall—but now she looked like a goddess. Maker forgive Josephine for her blasphemy, but it was true. 

Josephine realized that she wasn't quite ready for it to be over—wasn't ready to be done paying tribute as Cassandra deserved. So she slid her hands up Cassandra's thighs to cradle her waist, and said, "Can you go again?"

It was not a foregone conclusion, with Cassandra, that she could. Josephine could nearly always climax more than once at a time, but Cassandra could only sometimes. And if Cassandra was finished, then—

But Cassandra's eyes opened, calm and drowsy with satiation, and she nodded.

Josephine smiled and slid up her body, the sweat of the heat between them making it easier to glide over her skin until they were face to face again. Cassandra's hand trailed out of her hair and down to her neck and Josephine wasn't sure whether it was herself or Cassandra that began the kiss, raw and open-mouthed and yet somehow soft, still. She skated her fingertips down Cassandra's body and pressed in two fingers, curling and stroking. Cassandra cried out into her mouth and shook, rocking her hips up into the touch. Josephine added a third finger, thrusting, grinding the heel of her hand higher and swallowing Cassandra's sweet noises, swallowing her gasps, drinking her in as she filled her with her touch. 

Cassandra arched, thighs tense, straining, _reaching_ for it, and Josephine's wrist would be sore in the morning but she didn't care, couldn't care, as she saw, felt, tasted Cassandra reach that pinnacle again. As she felt her tightening in long rippling waves around her fingers.

She kept her fingers there, rocking slowly in and out until Cassandra was completely finished, until she was utterly limp and radiant against the sheets. She kissed Cassandra again, lax and tender, and finally pulled her fingers out and brought them to her mouth to suck them clean.

"You," Cassandra said, "You... are incredible." 

"So are you," Josephine said. "That was what had me so distracted all day."

"You flatter me," Cassandra said. She pushed herself up onto one elbow with a satiated clumsiness that was endearing, and said, "What about you?"

Despite the sweet ache between her legs, Josephine could be content just with this, to have appreciated every inch of Cassandra, to have shown her that appreciation. "You don't need to—"

But something sparked hot in Cassandra's eyes. "Yes," she said. "I do."

And Josephine could _feel_ herself grinning, wide and undignified, as Cassandra tipped her onto her back and began to kiss her way down, pausing at her breasts and then her thighs, but never for long—which was good, because Josephine was already trembling, brought so close by her prior slow delight in Cassandra's body. She was so near, in fact, that she could hardly hold still, squirming and gasping under Cassandra's kisses and her warm breath.

Cassandra nipped at her inner thigh until she squeaked, and then pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss directly on her center—

—and that was all it took, one hot swirl of her tongue and her low groan and Josephine was lost, writhing, calling her name and twining her hands in Cassandra's short hair.

"Mm," Cassandra said, once she was finished, cheek resting against her belly. "You are a delight. Everything about you, every part of you, a delight."

"Come back here," Josephine said, and Cassandra did.

They settled in, and it was warm enough to need nothing more than a sheet over their bodies. Cassandra stretched out, and before she snuffed the candle Josephine admired, not for the last time, those long, long legs and those muscled arms, flat belly and full breasts, broad shoulders, the curve of her hip—everything, everything Cassandra. She nuzzled against her side, cheek on her shoulder and arm draped across her stomach.

"Is this what I should expect from an Antivan lover on a sultry summer night?" Cassandra asked after a moment, voice husky, absently running her fingers through Josephine's hair.

Josephine tightened her arm around Cassandra's waist. "By my standards, this is not even a sultry summer night. We shall go to Antiva and then you will _truly_ see."

"I look forward to it," Cassandra said, and kissed the top of her head.


End file.
